Tintin in Paris
by los.kav
Summary: A runaway orphan leaves Belgium and ends up in Paris, where he works his way up from delivery boy to international reporter. Set before the start of the series: modernised.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Tintin, of course, does not belong to me. He belongs to **everyone. **More specifically, he belongs to the Hergé Foundation and Moulinsart.

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><p><strong>One<strong>

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><p>He hopped down from the train, wincing as the strap of his bag wrapped itself painfully around his hand and began to pinch his skin. Because of this, his head was down as he scrabbled to release the loop that had worked its way around his fingers. He took two or three steps forward before his painful dilemma was at an end and he was finally able to raise his head and take a look at Paris.<p>

La Gare du Nord was huge. He wandered along, slightly dazed as he followed the signs to the exit. It was, he knew, one of the busiest train stations in Europe, so the huge crowd was to be expected, but the word _crowd _seemed like an understatement of how busy it was, but for the life of him he couldn't think of a single word that could sum it up.

Still dazed, he left the chill shadows of the train station and stepped out in to the city. He turned left with the flow of people around him and looked around. A grin involuntarily plastered itself onto his face. He was sick with nerves as the enormity of what he'd done finally hit home: he had run away to Paris. It was the furthest he'd ever been from home. Sure, he'd run away before, but the farthest he'd ever gotten was Antwerp, when he'd been picked up at the wharf trying to get work on some boat or other. He'd only been ten then – a mere child – and had harboured romantic dreams about sailing the world and having adventures, but now, at the manly age of thirteen and a quarter, he was sure he had it all figured out.

Run away. _Done_.

Get to Brussels. _Done_.

Get to Paris. _Done_.

Don't get caught. _Well, we'll see._

First things first, he needed a place to stay. He'd sorted that out a while ago, using the computers in the library in town to browse estate agencies and letting agencies, until he'd found a cheap bed-sit – and it was a bed-sit, he was certain, no matter how the landlord had tried to gussy it up by calling it a studio apartment – in the city. It wasn't in the best part of course, but it was close to the city centre and he could afford it. He'd already paid his first month's rent and had an appointment to pick up the keys in an hour.

It had actually disappointed him when he realised how short the journey was. He'd imagined it would be epic; days of dramatic weather hampering their train, and a blizzard battering them (even though it was May and the weather had been perfectly pleasant all over Europe) and an eerie, atmospheric piece of music playing throughout it all, but when he'd been on the phone with the landlord, who'd asked him what time he could pick up the keys, he'd checked the time-table and saw that it was less than two hours from Brussels to Paris, and a little voice inside his head had said; "Aww!" and hung its head in sorrow.

He'd been terrified when he'd boarded the Eurostar in Bruxelles-Midi. He'd gotten there early, and had sat practically chewing the seat in front of him for fifteen minutes, certain that any second now the gendarmes would arrive and cart him back to the children's home. The seconds had ticked by slowly and when the train jolted underneath him he'd almost cried in relief. For most of the first hour, he kept his hood up, hoping it would hide his face, but after a while he forgot about that and stared avidly out of the window, trying to chart each and every sight he saw, so he could remember everything. He'd store it up and think about it later, when there was time to digest it all.

It flashed by quickly, and soon after that he was in Paris, and now he was there. He was _there_, surrounded by it all. He could smell the Sienne before he could see it, and when he had finally seen it he had stopped and stared, amazed that more people around him weren't doing the same. But Paris was big, and Paris was busy, and the Parisians weren't happy with gawking tourists. He was bumped into and pushed aside as he made his way to the letting agency, carefully following the directions he had been given earlier that morning.

It was located beside a grimy-looking arcade. He entered the small door set in the red-brick façade of the building and knocked at the first door he could see. A woman in a grubby business suit opened it and stared at him.

"Hi," he said. "My name's Tintin. I'm looking for Monsieur Douillet."

"Ah," she said. "Congratulations. Your references checked out." She took a red plastic key-ring out of her pocket and handed it to him. He took it, glancing at the two keys on the ring. They looked identical.

"One's a spare," she offered. "You can move in straight away." She smiled briskly and shut the door in his face.

He blinked, and looked down at the keys again. That had been surprisingly easy. His grin returned, wider than ever, as he slowly turned around and made his way back to the street. He was practically skipping as he hopped onto a bus and made his way to his new home.

He was slightly less enthusiastic when he saw the neighbourhood, and completely disappointed (and a little afraid) when he saw the building. By the time he'd seen his room he was ready to turn around and spend another €70 on a ticket home. Even the children's home hadn't been this… this _manky_. Half of the floor was linoleum, and every inch of that had been sticky. The other half was a snot-green carpet which, by some magical turn of fate, also managed to be sticky. The soles of his trainers squeaked and squelched as he made his way to the bed and put his bag down on it.

One metal bed-frame and a mattress, a few battered cupboards, a tiny fridge - no freezer - and an oven with two hobs. Nothing else. With a sigh, he sat down next to his bag and looked around, Master of his Cupboards and Oven. Well, he was in it now. This was all part of his grand plan. And if it didn't work out, he could leave at the end of the month and treat it like a delightful excursion into what was clearly some criminal gang's territory.

The next step was slightly harder. He had to get a job. In theory, any job would do, but his whole reason for running away was to become a reporter for one of the big European newspapers. Right now, it was unrealistic – he knew that without being told – but it wasn't unrealistic for a school drop-out to get a job as an office boy or errand boy. Even a receptionist or something. But to do that, he'd need to prove his age. It was time to get a fake passport.

He'd been given the name of someone that could get it for him. He'd called, spoken to someone about it, and agreed to hand over €300 for a new identity. Once he'd given the money over, that was it. He would be almost broke. He'd have enough for Pot Noodles and toilet paper, but only for about a week or so. He'd have to find a job quick or he'd starve to death. He wouldn't even have enough money to get a train home.

It took him a while to find the right place in Clichy-sous-Bois. If he had thought his own five storey building was bad, it was nothing compared to the squalid high–rises out there. He was directed to a basement nearby, where a young Asian man sat on a battered couch that leaked cheap foam stuffing. He'd given his name and handed over his money, and the young man had wordlessly produced a clear plastic baggie that held a brand new life.

He had a new passport, a French driving licence, a French birth certificate, and another identity card, a _cart __nationale __d__'__identité __sécurisée_, which was used all over France and was the most popular form of I.D. to carry, all in the name of Tintin.

His grin and his optimism returned as he made his way to the offices of _The __Daily __Reporter_, which was one of the biggest newspapers in Europe. _Who __knows? _he thought. _Maybe __my __luck __will __hold __out!_

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><p>Updated weekly, maybe. Probably the day after Alph Art.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

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><p>For the first couple of weeks, Tintin had been cautious. Too cautious, really. He'd managed to get a job with <em>The <em>_Daily __Reporter_, and for three months the only time he stepped outside his front door was when it was time to go to work. For the rest of the time, he stayed inside eating Pot Noodles and writing nonsense, scrawling his way through a stack of A4 notebooks until his hand felt like it was terminally cramped and his little plastic bin was overflowing with spent biros.

Every noise in the night made him freeze, his mind imagining the Belgian police or the Christian Brother's from the children's home inching their way forward, tracking him down and preparing to drag him back kicking and screaming. But they didn't come, and eventually he forgot his fear and threw himself into his new life.

The only job he'd been able to get was down in the bowels of _The __Reporter_'s building. Every morning he rose early enough to catch the night bus, which brought him over to Commercial in time to punch in at four a.m. Then, he and the rest of the lads would load up the vans and trucks and start the deliveries. They drove all over Paris, dropping off stacks of newspapers at the airport, the supermarkets, newsagents and, finally, the street kiosks.

After his first day, he swore his arms were broken. By the end of that first week, he wished they just fall off and end his suffering. But by the third week he was happy with his job and beginning to make friends, and one friend was Todd, an English kid fresh from his first year of university, who had taken a gap-year so he could intern with a couple of different papers. His place with _The __Reporter_ was finishing in six weeks, and then he was moving to the _Paris __Flash_ offices across the street.

"Can you get me in?" Tintin had asked cautiously one day, over lunch in a local café. He was chancing his arm, he knew: there was no way an internship could fall into his lap so easily.

Todd had shrugged and pulled at his bottom lip thoughtfully. "No idea," he'd said at last. "Collette usually sorts the interns for the paper. I can ask her, if you'd like."

"Is there any real point?"

"That's a bit of a defeatist's attitude. What have I told you about that? You should be more positive. Look. I'll talk to her. It can't do any harm, can it?"

It hadn't done any harm. Two days later, Tintin was wearing his nicest brown cords and a matching brown sports coat, with a nice shirt and tie. He perched nervously on the edge of the chair and watched Collette. She was small and slim, but surprisingly formidable. She'd met him at the reception, greeting him briskly and giving him no chance to answer her rapid questions as she walked him through the bull-pen to her office at the back. On the way, she'd reduced one secretary to tears and upbraided one of the sports journalists. Now, she was staring critically at Tintin's passport.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Er, eighteen," he lied.

She looked up at him and arched an eyebrow impressively. "How old are you?" she repeated.

His shoulders slumped and he sagged a little, deflated. "Sixteen," he lied again.

"Got any exams? No, didn't think so. Drop out?"

"Eh, yeah."

"How far'd you get? Did you at least finish high school?"

"Um, kind of." He'd rehearsed this: he was a bit rubbish at coming up with lies off the top of his head, so he'd carefully invented a story for himself. "I cracked before my final exams."

She nodded, and he was surprised to see a measure of sympathy in her quick, blue eyes. "My niece is taking exams this year. She's a basket case too. Look, I'll level with you: we don't want Todd to leave. But" – she paused and shrugged – "he wants to go to the _Paris __Flash_ and then back to Cambridge. So, young Tintin, your internship starts now. Right now. Stick with Todd. Learn everything from him. I want you to be his shadow until he leaves. If you know more than him, and if you work harder than him, then maybe after three months we'll want you to stay too."

And so began his glamorous life as an intern. For a weekly pittance he worked nine to twelve hours a day, mainly fetching coffee and sandwiches. Occasionally, for an added thrill, he was allowed to fetch the cakes too. But he was a quick learner, and eager to learn, so he watched and he listened and with Todd's help he managed to make himself invaluable with the daily running of the office. Soon, he was the only one who knew the trick of getting the good colour printer to work. He was the person that knew where the spare pens were kept. When the internal server computer – the computer that linked every other computer to a vast, internal network – became temperamental, he was the one that knew how to fix it, or at least knew the phone number of the techie that had set it up.

By the end of his three months Collette had decided that firing him would inconvenience the office for at least a week, and for that reason alone he was hired full-time. He was a cub reporter for _The __Daily __Reporter._

"Welcome aboard!" Christina (Arts and, regrettably for the men in the office, the weekend lesbian supplement) leaned over and slapped Tintin on the back as he tried to take a sip from his pint.

"Thanks, Chris," he said sarcastically as he mopped most of his mouthful up with a spare napkin. It was Friday night, and that day he'd been offered – and he'd accepted – his full-time position with the paper. Collette had smoked four cigarettes during their meeting, while she praised him and extolled his virtues and suggested a few classes he could take that would help his career.

"Scoops McGoo, _Newsly __Times!_" Jay (local soccer and rugby and, recently, the astrology pages for a bet) shoved the mouth of his bottle of Corrs under Tintin's nose. "How does it feel to be a small fish in a very large pond?"

"Well Scoops," Tintin said solemnly, playing along, "I'm not going to lie: it feels good. I'm so excited, I feel like I could fetch coffee professionally in the Olympics."

"Oh, settle down, Tiger!" Jay slipped his arm around Tintin's shoulders and gazed wistfully into the distance. "I can see it now, my friend: so many years ahead of you, getting my coffee…"

"Get bent!" Tintin shrugged his arm away with a grin and reached for his pint. "Can't wait for the next intern to show up," he added darkly. "I'm gonna make him my bitch."

They hooted with laughter at him.

"I hope it's a really hot girl and you fall in love." Christina tipped her cocktail at him teasingly.

"You've cursed him," Todd warned. "I have a crisp €10 note that says the next intern is a girl, and Tintin falls in love with her and ends up doing all her work."

"I'll take a bit of that action," Jay said. He pulled a €5 note and a jumble of change from his pocket and slapped in onto the table.

"Now you can _both_ get bent," Tintin replied.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

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><p>Monday morning saw Tintin sitting at his new desk in the bullpen. He had arrived early, like he always did, and force of habit made him check that every printer had paper and that the network computer was working properly. He was just going through his organizer (still mostly empty, but it was nice to input his few, relatively unimportant appointments into the schedule) when the others started to arrive. Soon, the bullpen filled up with laughter and chatter as the weekend was talked about and minor details analyzed.<p>

"…no we didn't get that far. We were too drunk to walk straight so we ended up…"

"…and I noticed she had this little tan line on her ring finger, so I asked Tom…"

"…say's they're all the same, you know, and you can't really trust 'em…"

"…right up his nose. Honest to God! It just flew up there and…"

Christina dumped her handbag onto the floor beside her chair and kicked it roughly under her desk, before giving her swivel chair a vicious push. It rolled over to Tintin's desk and she threw herself into it, lolling wearily. "What a weekend," she said with a sigh. "You look busy. What are you up to?"

"Nothing." He added his last entry and grinned at her. "Just the usual rubbish."

"Yeah, welcome to _The __Daily __Reporter,_ where everything is rubbish. Or barely working."

"Hey, home-boys." Jay appeared, dragging a chair behind him. "Is this our new meeting place? Cool, cool. Just texting Todd: he said to say good luck and that he hates you. Oh, and he's heading back to England soon. We should throw him a party or something."

"Here's Collette," Chris warned. "Quick! Look busy!"

As Collette hurried through the bullpen everyone pretended they were talking about work, or discussing recent news stories. "Tintin!" Collette called. He looked up and she crooked her finger at him, gesturing for him to follow her. He quickly got up and trotted obediently after her.

"Ooooh! You're in trouble!" Jay said. Christina picked it up, along with the rest of the bullpen, who joined in chanting; "Oooh! Fight! Fight! Fight!" By the time he'd reached Collette, who was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, she was smiling at his furious blushes.

"Ignore them," she said as she led him up. "You'll get a bit of hazing – everyone goes through it – but it's mostly harmless. They save their best pranks for me."

He already knew that: three weeks ago he and Jay had gift-wrapped every piece of stationary in her office, and before that Todd had led an impressive campaign to wall-paper her office with posters of David Hasselhoff.

She led him up to the second level, which was an open landing that ran around the entire building, with offices leading off at the back while the front opened onto the bullpen, so the superiors could look down at their busy workers. This was the floor every journalist with _The __Reporter_ aspired to: secluded privacy in their own office, instead of the unremitting push of the bullpen.

Henri De Villars, the editor and boss of the paper, had his office here, along with the senior reporters and other important people, including Collette. To Tintin's surprise, however, Collette ignored her own office and led him to the back-right corner of the landing, to an office that was tucked away on its own. She paused with her hand on the door and took a deep breath before opening it.

The rank air hit Tintin first. It stank of stale sweat and vomit, and other bodily functions too disgusting to consider. The office was dark. The Venetian blinds had been snapped shut and the only light came from a small Anglepoise lamp on the cluttered desk. A man was sleeping at the desk, in an old black swivel chair that looked like it was held together by duct tape and the will of God. His head hung back, his snores rising softly into the murky gloom, while his arms dangled at his sides. His legs were stretched out under the desk and his shoes had been kicked off, revealing mismatched socks with holes in both heels.

Collette made her way to the man. When she reached him, she simply tipped the chair over and deposited him in an untidy heap on the floor. "Tintin, this is Jack Keller," she said. "Jack, this is Tintin."

"Jesus, woman, are you trying to kill me?" Jack managed to clamber to his feet where he stood, swaying and glaring balefully at Collette. "Who is this guy?" he added, jerking his head at Tintin.

Inside, Tintin's heart sank. Everyone knew Jack – he was a joke. Once, he had been a great journalist, rising to the top in his native America with _The __Chicago __Tribune_, but by the time he'd made his way to Europe he was burnt out: too many years in war-torn countries, and witnessing the atrocities performed on fellow human beings had stripped his soul. Now, he was a drunk: a wreck of a man that drank all day and hadn't written a good article in about five years.

"Jack, we talked about this," Collette said calmly. "This is the kid I was telling you about, remember?"

"No." Jack put his chair to rights and flopped back into it, running his hand through his thick, dishevelled brown hair. He had the beginning of a drunk's beard, and he scratched at the stubble idly.

Collette gritted her teeth. "This is happening, Jack," she said tiredly. "Shape up or ship out. This is your last chance." She turned back to Tintin. "Jack is going to be your mentor," she said. "Lucky you, huh? Do everything he says and learn what you can from him."

Tintin looked at her beseechingly. "Really?" he asked in a small voice.

"Really," she said firmly.

_Oh __well,_ he thought. He took a deep breath (and regretted it instantly: the office was _foul_) and steeled himself. "Fine," he said at last.

"Good for you." Collette patted him kindly on the arm. "I'll let you say your goodbyes down stairs – no doubt you'll want to fill your friends in when you get your stuff, and I'm sure they'll be dying to know why I brought you to Jack's pit. Finish up whatever you have to do down there, and after lunch relocate to this office. Jack…" She turned and looked at the man, who was trying to take a surreptitious gulp of a silver-coloured hip-flask. "For God's sake, man, go home and have a shower." Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "This has to stop: you can't sleep in here at weekends any more." She swept out of the room, leaving the door open behind her.

Tintin swallowed his first question ("You sleep in your office at weekends?") and forced a polite smile onto his face. "It'll be a pleasure to work with you, sir," he managed to say.

"No it won't," Jack replied morosely. "Now go away. I'm trying to write a piece about the riots."

Tintin watched as Jack used two fingers to tap away at his keyboard. "Uh, Mr Keller, sir? You're computer's not turned on."

"Oh." Jack stared at the screen for a second, before taking another gulp from his flask.

"And the riots happened three years ago." Shaking his head in dismay, Tintin left the office and went back to the bullpen for the last time.

xxx

"It's a test," Chris said. She was holding her pen like a cigarette while she squinted at Tintin. Their work had been abandoned for the morning as she and Jay clustered around Tintin's former desk.

"A test?" Tintin looked up. He had rested his head on the desk dejectedly, so he had to turn slightly to see her face.

"Gotta be," said Jay firmly. "She's done this before. Remember that photographer?"

"The woman?" Chris asked. "Yeah, she was great. Her work was amazing. She does a bit of work now with _Italian __Vogue._ Did you see her spread for Tristan Bior last month?"

"Yeah, yeah, it luminescent," Jay said distractedly, waving his hand. "Do you remember when Collette put her up with Jack?"

"Oh, Christ, that was a mess."

"What happened?" Tintin asked worriedly.

"She lasted a week and quit in a flood of tears. He's a horrible pig," Chris said, her face pinched with distaste. "He told me a good shag would cure me from being gay."

"He's old school," Jay said with a shrug.

"He's a jingoistic chauvinist!"

Tintin groaned and banged his head on the desk. "What does he think of Belgians?"

"He says they're bumpkins," Jay replied. "But to be fair, so do I."

"Cheers, mate." Tintin raised his head as his phone buzzed. It was a message from Todd. He read it before relaying it's contents to the others. "He says it's a test. Definitely a test."

"Let's hope you pass," Chris said darkly. All three found their gaze dragged up to the office, and Tintin felt a shiver work its way down his back.

"Great," he murmured. "I'm a test subject."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **rated for naughty language, black humour and disturbing, newsworthy content.

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><p><strong>Four<strong>

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><p>After lunch, Tintin made his way back upstairs. As he, Christina and Jay hit the bullpen, he peeled away from the safety of the group, throwing a desperate glance back over his shoulder as he went. His friends looked so worried and sympathetic that he almost laughed out loud: it was like he was going to face a firing squad instead of a senior reporter. He took a deep breath when he reached the office and knocked before he went in.<p>

Jack, mercifully, wasn't there. The stench, on the other hand, remained. He dropped his satchel onto the floor beside the desk and looked around. Thankfully, someone had cleaned up whatever Jack had left in the bin, but the place was still a complete tip. The filing cabinets were over-flowing with what turned out to be waste paper – mainly abandoned articles or plain printer paper covered with obscene doodles – and every old article and file that should have been kept safely was piled precariously on the cluttered desk. Hidden among the detritus were the remains of countless takeaways and Styrofoam coffee cups.

_Right. _Tintin stood and surveyed the room. He simply couldn't work like this. He grabbed his wallet from his satchel, pausing only to open the blinds and throw the window open to the fresh air, and went out, his face set with determination. Ignoring the enquiring looks from his friends in the bullpen he left the building completely, returning about twenty minutes later with a roll of industrial-sized black bin bags. Taking the stairs two at a time, he quickly set about purging the office.

An hour and two bin bags later, Tintin had finally cleared the filing cabinets and had set about sorting through the old files. This was going to be tricky and time consuming: he needed to go through each file carefully in order to store it properly. Jack's system wasn't too different from what he was used to though: the completed article at the front and everything else shoved in at the back.

"Everything else" usually consisted of the names and addresses of various people and contacts used to source the information for the article; transcripts of lengthy interviews; information about the article's subject that might be relevant; and, in Jack's case, more doodles of boobs and cocks. Most of the information was probably out of date now, with most of the contacts either dead or moved on, but every so often Tintin would come across something that might be useful – names, phone numbers, people that could be bribed for a good piece of information, contacts that might still be useful…

The door opened and Tintin looked up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and nodded politely to Jack. The man looked cleaner, his clothes fresher, and his beard growth was gone. A single scrap of tissue paper clung forlornly to his jaw, covering a shaving nick.

"Who the hell are you?" Jack asked with a frown.

"Tintin," Tintin replied, confused. "We met this morning?"

Jack stared at him blankly.

"Collette introduced us? I'm supposed to be working with you?"

"Oh, for God's sake! Not this again!" Jack pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Why does that woman insist on doing this? Why? What the hell are you doing, anyway?"

"Cleaning up," Tintin said firmly. "This place is atrocious!"

"Relax, kid, you're not going to be here long enough to care." Jack threw himself into his chair heavily and put his feet up on the desk. Reclining slightly, he stared at Tintin, who had gone back to his own work. "So… _Tintin. _That's a funny name. Is it your real name?"

"No," Tintin said idly as he took a note of a name and a phone number. "It's a pseudonym."

"What's your real name?"

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not. I just don't understand this European obsession with pseudonyms. Most reporters never achieve the level of fame a pseudonym is appropriate for. In America, the only people that use them are the people that could _actually_ get killed for their work. So what does 'tintin' mean?"

"Nothing."

"You just made it up?"

"No, it means 'nothing'." Tintin kneeled up and dropped the completed file into the second lowest compartment of the filing cabinet and grabbed another one before settling back down. "It's Flemish slang for 'nothing'."

"Huh." Jack fell silent as he thought about it for a moment. "Cute. So you're a peasant?"

"I'm Belgian," Tintin corrected him.

"You ran away to the big city, huh? Ran off to the Big Smoke." Jack grinned at him. It was unpleasant, like the kind of smile a cat would give to a three-legged mouse. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Bullshit! You look about twelve!"

Tintin took a deep breath. He had expected this. Actually, he'd expected worse: Jack was not an easy man to work with. In fact, he was notoriously difficult. He'd heard more stories about the man over the course of the morning and early afternoon, and none of them had been particularly complimentary.

According to most of the staff, Jack Keller was there simply because he had a well-known name. People had heard of him; had heard of the work he'd done in places like the Sudan, Cambodia, Juárez, and with the politically funded neo-nazi gangs in the former Eastern Bloc. His name still held weight, even if most of his newer stuff was sloppy and a bit shit.

But the strange thing was, Tintin was finding, that Jack's work actually _wasn__'__t_ all that bad. It wasn't up to the paper's usual standard – not by a long shot – but that could be fixed with a bit of creative editing. Spelling and grammar had to be sorted out – _seriously,_ had the man never heard of spell-check? – and some of the writing was clichéd and lazy, and a lot of it was just Jack pontificating and ranting against society, but the core ideas were good. Very good in some cases, so Tintin slogged on, answering Jack's increasingly irreverent and irrelevant questions while taking careful notes.

"Seriously, how old are you?"

"Eighteen. I already told you."

"You sound like you're chewing on a turnip. You gotta lose that accent, kid. C'mon, how old are you?"

"Eighteen!"

"Yeah, right! And I'm the Queen of Gaipajama! Where's your parents?"

"Dead."

"No shit! Really?"

"I hope so: otherwise burying them would have been a big mistake." Tintin looked up with a grin, letting Jack know it was a joke.

"Little orphan bumpkin. How'd they go?"

"I don't know: I never knew them."

"Hah! Your momma died before you were born, right? Pull the other one: it's got bells on."

"No, hand to God: I'm an orphan."

"You're yankin' me. Orphans don't exist no more."

"Well, I'm a genuine orphan. No family at all."

"Bullshit! You live in an orphanage?"

"Yep. We don't call 'em orphanages though. They're group homes now."

"Get out of here! State run?"

"Yep."

"Catholic Church?"

"Oh yes." Tintin suppressed a shudder, which Jack noticed.

"O-ho! You get touched up?"

Tintin looked up quickly, shocked at the nature of the question and its brutal delivery. "What? No! I… No, of course not!"

"Liar!" Jack's eyes flashed wickedly. He looked as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon! Did some priest touch your vestibules?"

"What? No!"

"Did he take you to heaven and back?"

"Oh my _God!_"

"Did he consecrate your host? Iron your vestments? You can tell me, kid: did he make you kneel in benediction?"

Tintin felt awful for laughing, but he just couldn't help himself. It seemed so sublimely ridiculous: men of God raping and torturing children in state-run institutions, but it was happening, and it was a global phenomenon. And God's 'chosen representatives on earth', the various popes, were simply sweeping it under the carpet and hoping it would go away. He shook his head and went back to work.

"Do you believe in God?" Jack asked suddenly.

Tintin frowned, but didn't look up. "I guess," he said absently.

"Are you still a Catholic?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't really think about it. Does it matter?"

"No. I just think it's amusing that people still believe in God."

"It's a personal choice," Tintin said, looking up sharply.

"Yeah. I guess." Jack leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. "Y'know, I once saw the body of an eight year old girl. She'd been raped to death. Honest to God: raped to death. She'd been tortured pretty badly too, before she finally died. They'd poured boiling water in her eyes."

Tintin stared at him, aghast. He was, he realised, completely speechless. He couldn't even begin to comprehend what that little girl had gone through. Great snakes, he couldn't even comprehend what Jack had gone through, and he'd only seen the body.

"That's not the worst thing I've seen, though," Jack continued thoughtfully. "That doesn't make the top five. Top ten, maybe, but there's worse out there. That's what you're getting into, kid." He swung his legs down from the desk and leaned forward, towards Tintin, his elbows resting on his knees.

"It's all well and good here, in Paris. You got your fashion, your easy politics, your culture… It's all very civilized. But it's a fuckin' lie, kid: the whole goddamn lot of it. It's all built on the back of slavery, and if you don't believe slavery exists in this day and age, you're a goddamn fool. You dig through almost any aspect of our civilized life and you'll find a corporation shitting on people from a great height. Those are the stories we need to tell, kid; to bring a voice to those that can't speak out.

"But people don't care. They really fuckin' don't." Jack shook his head in wonder. "Why the fuck would they care about sweat-shops and the children forced to work in them, during fashion week? Why would they care where their old cell phones and computers are dumped, when they can buy a brand new, cut-price android made by a slave in China? Who cares which landfill the toxic waste is dumped in to, as long as it's far from this civilized place?

"They don't thank you for these stories, Tintin, because it makes 'em look like assholes. Oh, sure, they'll give you a pat on the back and a plastic statue painted gold, but next week there'll be more news, and the stuff that really matters – the destruction of the world, genocide, war, murder, rape, abuse – gets washed away in a wave of mediocre bullshit. And God help us if Lindsay Lohan fucks up again: that mess won't shift from the front pages for weeks, pushing the real news back so it doesn't upset people.

"And that's how they want it, kid. They distract us with meaningless bullshit, so while we stare at the shiny thing in their right hand, they fuck us over with their left hand. What was in the papers this morning?"

"Um, Amy Winehouse? Her driver hit a photographer with his car, apparently," Tintin said with a shrug.

"Yeah? A typhoon hit China this morning. People are dying over there. Typhoon Hagupit. Did that make the papers?"

Tintin shook his head slowly. "I don't remember reading it."

"Because Amy Winehouse's friggin' driver is more important. Does that seem fair to you? Does that seem like _real_ news to you?"

"No," Tintin said quietly. "No, I think a natural disaster hitting a heavily over-populated country would be slightly more important."

"_That__'__s_ what you're up against, kid. _That__'__s_ what you're facing: people who just don't give a good goddamn about what's happening in the real world. I hope you're up to it, Tintin, I hope to God you're able for it. 'Cause if you're not, it's going to swallow you up and spit you back out, and every time you see a story about Amy Winehouse or Tom Cruise acting nutty, while people are dying all over the world in pointless conflicts, gang wars and natural disasters, it's going to kill you a little inside. Right!" He slapped his hands against his legs loudly, and Tintin jumped at the sudden noise. "I'm going for a nap. Wake me up when it's time to go home."

Tintin watched, slightly shell-shocked, as Jack put his feet back up on the desk and settled in for a snooze. Within seconds his chin was resting against his chest and realistic-sounding snores floated up in to the heavy silence of the office. Shaking himself mentally, Tintin remembered the file in his hands and went back to it. As he opened it, a black and white photograph slipped out of the mess of papers and fluttered delicately to the carpet. With a hiss of frustration, Tintin snatched it up, intended to push it back into the file.

He paused, and studied it carefully. A small boy lay in the middle of an anonymous road – it could be anywhere, from America to Paris or London – a pool of blood forming around his tiny body. Numbered plastic markers stood around the corpse, counting the bullets that had taken his young life. He wasn't more than ten years old, Tintin guessed, and that was probably being generous. His small face was tilted towards the camera, frozen in a mask of fear; the victim of a gang war he would never understand.

The article itself was marked: "Unpublished: bumped for better story about Tom Cruise."


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

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><p>October rolled around, ending the heatwave that had covered the city during September, squatting over them like a suffocating bird of prey, and at last the city began to cool down. The random pockets of violence that had seemed to flare up with the worst of the heat died away as the city's gangs got back to the business of thuggery. Sitting in the small café opposite an old, abandoned hotel, Tintin kept one eye on the time and another on the street. About half and hour ago a crummy, beat up, blue Opel had pulled up and his contact, T-Bag, had entered the old hotel. Now, all Tintin had to do was wait.<p>

Things had been going great at work. Jack was still a lazy drunk, so Tintin had been pretty much able to do whatever he wanted with the column. He'd written a few political pieces, changing his own writing style to incorporate Jack's wry sense of humour and self-importance. It had been difficult at first – their styles had been so different, with Tintin preferring a more emotive, descriptive style that looked to childish and sentimental next to Jack's – but he'd finally hit a happy medium, and the _Letters To The Editor_ segment was beginning to print a few tentative messages of support for 'Jack Keller' and his opinions.

Happily, Jack had no idea what was going on. Every so often he'd hand Tintin a badly-spelled article – usually a meandering rant filled with random trains of thought – which Tintin would happily accept with a smile and a nod and immediately disregard. He would pretend to type up Jack's articles while working on real articles, and because Jack didn't read _The __Reporter_ ("_The __Reporter__'__s __for __chumps, __kid: __it__'__s __sensationalist __crap __two __steps __away __from __a __tabloid __rag!__"_) he'd been able to get away with it for almost a month now.

He checked the time again: 11:30pm. There was still no movement from the hotel. He wasn't worried though: one thing Jack always said was Don't Panic. Granted, then he usually added some clap-trap about always having a towel on your person, but Tintin didn't know whether or not this was a reference to a book he'd never read, or if Jack was making a racist joke about the people he referred to as 'towel-heads', so he usually ignored that part.

11:35. He took a sip of his coffee and continued waiting. T-Bag had been clear: wait until he and his two boys were clear before calling the police. During the summer, the cops – working with Interpol – had raided a house in one of the poorer Parisian suburbs and came away with one of the largest hauls of the last five years. The city's drug trade then ground to a halt as the drugs were seized by the cops. This, combined with the heat and natural hate that the various gangs had for one another and society in general, was part of the reason the gangs had been so violent over the last few months.

Their main source of income came from dealing drugs, and with no drugs to deal they'd had to find other ways to make money: muggings, breaking and entering, stealing cars, pick-pocketing, prostitution… There'd been a sharp rise in gun and knife crime too, with people getting shot or stabbed as the nervous criminals – most of them still in their teenage years – got spooked and starting shooting if a plan went even slightly awry. And, naturally, there some that just liked to kill, and would do so at even the smallest provocation.

T-Bag was sick of it. T-Bag was, in fact, Tintin's own contact: one he'd found by himself, without the aid of Jack's notes. T-Bag was the same young Asian man Tintin had bought his fake papers from when he'd first arrived in Paris. They'd kept in touch almost accidentally: when Tintin had gotten his first job in _The __Reporter_'s printing rooms he'd texted T-Bag to thank him for his help. They'd been texting back and forth since then, and Tintin had found that T-Bag was actually articulate, intelligent, and quite a decent guy.

His parents were Chinese immigrants, and they both worked all day and night to try and make a better life in France for their children, but T-Bag had seen them face racism, abuse, random violence from young thugs, and discrimination from official thugs. The turning point had been when T-Bag's older brother – a student that had worked two jobs to pay for college – had been attacked late one night by a group of drunken idiots, and kicked to death. Nobody had ever been prosecuted for the crime, but it was common knowledge among college students in one particular school who had done it.

T-Bag had begun to drift then, getting deeper into trouble as he detached himself from the society that hated and scorned him. He got in with a gang in Clichy-sous-Bois and found a new society that accepted him fully, and with open arms. In return, his bourgeoning business acumen, savvy street-smarts and calming influence had turned the gang from a disorganized bunch of louts into a group that was run with almost militant efficiency, that were expanding into the black market and finally starting to make some real money.

The drug bust had inconvenienced T-Bag. Usually, his boys got to stay in abandoned flats and warehouses, and people came to them for stuff like their party drugs, E and weed, to the stronger stuff like coke and heroin. Once the drugs were seized by the police, T-Bag watched the gang almost disintegrate around him as his vicious second-in-command, a Germanic maniac called Herr Drier (Dizzy to his friends), had started a side-line in B&E, which had grown steadily more violent as Dizzy drew further and further away from T-Bag's influence.

This had culminated in a night of heady violence two weeks ago, when an elderly couple had been beaten to death in their flat when they interrupted a break-in. The next night, frustrated by the lack of action and seeming incompetence of the police, a peaceful protest that was taking place outside the police headquarters descended into all-out war, as the street gangs took to the streets and declared war on one another. In the immediate aftermath, T-Bag's gang fractured when the rumours broke out that Dizzy and a few of his closest homies were the ones who had killed the elderly couple – rumours that Dizzy encouraged because they were true – and the gang members began to chose sides, claiming loyalty to either T-Bag or Dizzy.

This new conflict brought a series of vicious, escalating attacks on each other that had so far left three people in the hospital, five in jail, and one in the morgue, and it had only been going on for fourteen days.

It was T-Bag that had suggested it: a sit-down peace talk between the two rivals in a neutral place. They'd stop the escalating reprisals, settle whatever bad-blood was between them, and work out territory so that the two factions could co-exist relatively trouble-free. Or so Dizzy thought.

T-Bag was under no illusions: Dizzy was devious. He would agree to this with a warm smile and get T-Bag as soon as the dust had settled. In fact, had T-Bag not insisted that their meeting be small – each of them could only bring two other people – Dizzy probably would have struck right then, getting T-Bag as soon as his shitty little Opel had pulled up outside the old hotel. Tintin had seen the gang's arsenal. It wasn't as expansive as some of the other gangs', but it was pretty impressive and contained a number of pistols and two or three machine guns, as well as a stack of knives and meat cleavers. If Dizzy wanted T-Bag dead, he would have found a way to make it happen.

Unless, of course, he was out of the picture, which was where Tintin came in. His source, T-Bag, would be allowed to leave unmolested, but as soon as he was in his car Tintin was calling the cops. Earlier today, he and T-Bag had hidden a small – but significant – stash of weapons in the hotel, along with the shirt Dizzy had been wearing when he'd stabbed the elderly couple to death. T-Bag would leave, the police would arrive, and Dizzy would be sent down for a long time. T-Bag would regain full control of the gang and Tintin – who 'luckily' was there for the whole thing – would get a great story. He'd already photographed the weapons and the bloody shirt, because he knew the police would never give him access to them once they were on the scene, and the bones of the article were already written. Now all he needed were the details.

11.45pm, and there was movement at the hotel. Tintin grabbed his camera and hooked the long handle of his satchel around his neck. He quickly dialled the number for the gang task-force and paused, waiting for T-Bag to get out of there. His stomach bounced nervously. A young black youth, who looked younger than sixteen for sure, opened the door and peered around. When he was certain that there were no police hiding in the shadows of the ill-lit parking bay, he gestured inside and his fellows emerged. As T-Bag strolled to the crappy Opel his eyes locked with Tintin's. They stared at each other for a few seconds, their faces carefully blank, and then T-Bag was in the passenger seat of the car. The black youth got into the driver's seat and the third boy, a gangling Asian youth that looked ridiculously young, jumped into the back. As soon as the final door had slammed shut, Tintin pressed the Call button on his phone.

"The man who killed Monsieur et Madame Fournier is in the old Hôtel Magnifique building," he said in a low voice the second the phone was answered. "I advise you to move fast." He hung up and stood up, leaving the money for his coffee on the table. Slipping his phone into his pocket, he left the café. Once outside, he adjusted his bag so that his hands were free for the camera. He'd already chosen his spot: there were two parked cars a bit further down that he could crouch behind, getting cover in case anything went wrong, but still with a clear enough view of the action.

Dizzy had come to the meeting in an up-market BMW that still bore a smashed window as evidence of his stealing it. Tintin made sure to get a few shots of that, including the number plate. The number plate wasn't particularly important or newsworthy, and the police would be able to contact the owner in seconds compared to how long it would take him to trace it back to them, but in a few weeks – long after interest in this story had disappeared – when Dizzy's court case began, Tintin could trace the owners himself and do a 'human interest' story or something. _A __Murderer __Stole __My __Car_, maybe. It would be a very lazy, but quite interesting, filler piece he could use to pad something out with. Not exactly a Pulitzer prize-winning piece of work, but would be easy.

Great snakes, he was even beginning to _think_ like Jack now. He was spending _way_ too much time around him.

There was more movement at the hotel as a young face appeared at the glass panel beside the door and checked the street for trouble. Tintin swung the camera away from the stolen car and started snapping. Dizzy himself came out first, testing the air like a rat. He was half-way across the parking bay – half-way to the BMW – when a black saloon car screeched around the corner, high beams flooding the dark road. Dizzy stood, frozen in the bright lights (it made a great picture, and Tintin was planning on having it blown up, framed, and presented to T-Bag for Christmas) before his legs awoke and he started to run.

A second car followed the first, effectively blocking that way off, so Dizzy turned and started to run towards the other end of the street, abandoning the stolen BMW in the hope that he could find a crowd to blend in with quickly. Two cruisers then appeared from nowhere and turned on their sirens. They skidded in, boxing him into their trap. As soon as the police were out of their cars Tintin stood up and continued snapping. It didn't matter if he was noticed now: Dizzy and his homeboys suddenly had a whole lot else to worry about now.

They went easily, in the end. They still didn't know they'd been set up. They obviously hadn't checked over the hotel before the meeting or they might have found the stash. As far as they knew, they were in the clear: guilty of nothing more than breaking into a beat-up, empty old building. They were handcuffed and put in the cruisers, and Tintin got a few good shots of that, with each boy wearing a smug, nasty little grin that would swing public favour against them when published next to a headline that read _Smiling __Granny __Killers_ (Jack's influence again? Good grief!)

After that, he had a small set-to with one idiot cop that kept insisting Tintin 'move along', but after a few minutes of waving his credentials under the man's nose – and after slipping him a €50 note – the cop got the message and let Tintin get back to work. He even managed to get a great shot of the two Interpol officers falling arse-over-tit as they tried to enter the building together.

Over the next hour more and more cars showed up. Most were police cars and forensics experts once the evidence was found, but the press were there too, and the streets filled out with gawkers and hangers-on observing new gossip with interest. Tintin made his way over to a small crowd of photographers that were hanging around underneath a street light.

"Ah, the Man with No Name," said Todd when he spotted Tintin. "Get anything good?"

Tintin shrugged. "Same as everyone else, I guess."

"Liar. Where were you when this started?"

"Drinking coffee. What are you doing here anyway?" The _Paris-Flash_ wasn't exactly known for gritty – or accurate – content.

"Hm. This all ties in to the theme of _Urban __Decay_, apparently," Todd said, rolling his eyes. "Plus, I was the only person with access to a camera that had their phone switched on, so here I am. What's the story here?"

"I don't know," Tintin lied. "It must be something important though, if Interpol are here. Maybe something to do with drugs?" He felt a bit bad for lying about it, but Todd would understand.

"Interpol?" Todd raised his eyebrows, impressed at the news, and the gossip quickly spread back through the other photographers.

"That's their car, isn't it?" Tintin asked, pointing towards the black saloon.

"Was it those two tits with the stupid bowler hats?" someone asked.

"Do they also fall over a lot? If so: yes! Ah, here they come."

The knot of photographers turned around as one as the hotel door opened again and the two Interpol officers reappeared, their arms filled with evidence bags. For a long while the loudest sound were the clicks and whirrs of the cameras as they charted the detectives' journey to their car. With enough evidence to at least bring the gang-bangers in, the two cruisers turned on their sirens and drove away, the black saloon following them closely.

"Well, that's all, folks." Tintin stowed his camera back into his bag and tipped a salute to the others. They would have a thankless job, now; writing the article from scratch and pestering the police for information until they found someone that could be bribed. He alone would be early to bed, knowing that the afternoon edition of _The __Reporter_ would still be running with the most complete story.

It was a good day's work.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Extra updates this week, chaps: this has been exceptionally fun to write. Also, new title (please, don't be confused: this **was** _We'll Always Have Paris, Mr Knickerbocker_. You haven't gone mad!) because I've had a bloody good idea and I sort of want to keep writing a few more stories that might have popped into my head (accidentally, of course), and one of them might also include Jack, who has become a lot of fun to write.

ps: yes that's "updates" because there shall be a few chapters put up tonight (what can I say? I got the whole weekend off to write. Don't worry: there's about 3 updates of Alph-Art almost complete too: one will -hopefully- be up tomorrow).


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

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><p>At first, Tintin had enjoyed his photography classes. He went every Thursday night in a near-by evening school, but he quickly found that he could learn more about composition, angles, subjects and light simply by observing the photographers that surrounded him. Todd and Jay, in particular, had a keen interest in photography. It was Jay's skill in capturing action shots that had gotten him bumped from serious news to sports, where a quick finger and a keen eye was worth more. Todd, on the other hand, had accepted the internship at <em>Paris <em>_Flash_ to develop his own skills, as the fashionable magazine was noted for its artistic photo-stories.

It was a few days before Halloween and the three of them – Tintin, Todd and Jay – had spent their Saturday off touring the city and taking photographs. They did it quite a lot, the three of them: out all over Paris taking shots of the buildings, comparing architectural styles and various periods. They toured the parks and zoos or just stayed in the centre of the city taking candid shots of people and crowds. Usually, it was a lot of fun, but today it had been tense.

For some reason, Jay had been acting oddly. He hadn't been his usual chipper self since Tintin had met them that morning outside a small café on the banks of the Seine. At first, Tintin had just assumed it was the early morning start and the bitter cold that was the problem, but by the time they'd stopped for lunch in Subway it was clear that Tintin himself was the problem. Oh, sure: there had been a few snide remarks all morning but that was normal for Jay, even if his comments were slightly more barbed than usual. But he seemed to have no problem with Todd: together they were laughing and chatting and cracking jokes, but any time Tintin opened his mouth to say something, Jay would roll his eyes or sigh loudly, or look pointedly at his watch.

Seven pm found them in the pub, their cameras tucked safely away for the rest of the night. Both Tintin and Todd had stuck to pints, and were both on their first drink of the night, savouring the taste as they savoured the friendly atmosphere of the little pub. Jay had already finished two bottles of Coors, both gulped down quickly with whisky chasers, and had switched to vodka and ice. At the moment, he was trying to convince Todd to have a few rounds of tequila.

"Not for me, mate," Todd said with a yawn. "I'm bushed. If I drink any tequila I'll just fall asleep."

"Aww! C'mon! Live a little!"

"Nah, I'm good."

Jay rolled his eyes and hit the bar alone. As soon as he was gone, Tintin cleared his throat. "Is he ok?" he asked hesitantly.

Todd shrugged. "I dunno."

"He's a bit more… aggressive or something, no?"

"Yeah, I noticed that too. Did you two fall out or something?"

"Not that I know of." Tintin chewed at his lip as he thought about it. As far as he knew, Jay had been fine all week. Granted, Tintin had been so busy recently that he didn't have much time to talk at work, but every time they'd seen each other, both Tintin and Jay had taken the time to acknowledge each other, even if it was just a quick "Hello!" or a friendly nod and a wave, usually when Tintin was rushing through the bullpen either on his way to his office or out for a meeting.

He _had_ been very busy though, so maybe he had missed something. T-Bag had put him in contact with another gang: a group of young girls that were almost as bad as the boys, if not worse. He'd sat there, in some nondescript derelict flat, with a grin frozen onto his face for so long it felt like a grimace, listening to the girls laughing and telling stories of their exploits. Their capacity for random, casual violence really scared him. And some of the stories were just disturbing. They'd talked of seeing some random girl standing at the bus stop who'd they'd attacked for the sake of a nice-looking hand-bag; or of being out in pubs, drinking, and starting fights over the stupidest infractions, and stabbing the target of their anger; of seeing a good-lucking, confident girl in a nightclub and beating her half to death to 'take her down a peg or two'.

But if the casual violence was compelling, and their flippant attitude towards their victims disgusting, it was their personal stories that were heartbreaking. They were products of their environments, children of single mothers that worked so many jobs they couldn't take care of their children because they simply weren't _there_. Some had fathers that beat them – or worse – and all came from families that were on nodding terms with absolute poverty. The series of articles he had been running all week had sparked fierce debate in the letters' page.

Some blamed society and were calling for an overhaul of the Department of Child Welfare; others blamed the parents and demanded that the gang members be locked up, that 'Jack Keller' should name and shame the girls instead of letting them hide behind blurred photos and fake names; others criticized the ridiculously lenient sentences handed out to the girls when they had been caught – none of them had ever seen the inside of a correctional facility and if they didn't turn up for community service nobody gave a damn, and being 'on tag' was like a holiday to them. It was a chance to stay inside, in the warmth and with their families. It let them quit whatever drugs they were taking, and dry out from the cheap cider they drank on the streets. It was treated almost like a spa weekend.

So in all honesty, Jay _could_ have been annoyed about something, but Tintin simply hadn't had any time to notice. He ran his hand through his hair – it needed to be cut, and badly – and shrugged. "Is it possible for two people to fall out, and for one of them to not notice?"

"Anything's possible with Jay. Oh Lordy." Todd shook his head and sighed. "He's just put two more shots down his throat."

They watched as Jay, still at the bar, emptied two shots of tequila to a round of applause from the other bar-flies. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, he staggered back over to them holding a Jägerbomb and a double vodka and ice.

"All right, bellends?" he said as he plopped into his seat. As he rearranged his legs he kicked the table, knocking his two empty bottles over. "Service here is crap," he said as he picked them back up. "Certainly not _exceptional_."

"Oh God, not this again," Todd said with a groan.

Tintin looked from one to the other, clearly missing something. "What?"

Jay pointed an empty bottle at him. "Go on: how'd you do it?"

"Do what?" Tintin asked, confused.

"Get the job. Go on: did you fuck Collette or something?"

"What? No!"

"Are you sucking Jack's cock then?"

"No! Jay! What are you saying to me?"

"Exceptional!" Jack snapped. He slammed the bottle back on to the table. "That's what she said."

"Who said what?" Tintin looked at Todd, who rolled his eyes again and shook his head.

"I should be up with Jack," Jay hissed. He leaned forward, stabbing his finger in Tintin's direction to emphasise his point. "I'm older than you. I worked here longer than you. I put in the hard graft and what do I get? Sod all! I got took off real news and shoved to the back pages. Sport? Bah! I don't even like rugby!"

Tintin shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what your point is, mate."

"I'm not your fucking mate!" Jay shouted. Around them, the conversation dipped a little and the bar man looked over, worried. "You don't deserve that job! You've only been here five sodding minutes and already you get an office?"

"An office that smelt like vomit and poo!"

"And you get to hang out with Jack."

"Yeah, and _he_ smells like vomit and poo!"

"He must be doing _something_ right: look at how much he's taught you already! Tintin, on Wednesday _your_ articles were picked up by the leader of the opposition! They're using _your_ articles to discredit Sarkozy and his government!"

"So?" Tintin snapped, suddenly annoyed and a little embarrassed. He hadn't realised it would go that far, and he didn't want it to go any further: anyone digging into Jack's new-found _joie __de __vivre_ would quickly discover what was really going on, leading to some awkward questions that Tintin didn't want to answer, such as _Who __are __you? __Where __are __you __from? __How __old __are __you?_

Questions like that would be _very _dangerous.

As it was, they'd been concentrating more on the content than the author, which was strange considering Jack's notoriety, but that meant that all the credit was still going to Jack, not Tintin. So what did it matter to Jay how far the articles were going, anyway? Its not like Tintin was reaping any of the benefits.

"How is this my fault?" he demanded, his temper rising. "Like you just said: _you_ worked here longer. Three years now, yes? So how is it my fault that not once during those three years did you bother getting up off your lazy butt and going to talk to Jack? How is it my fault that you don't have the initiative to go out and find stories? Every day you're home by six-thirty, yes? I'm out until the small hours of the morning, working hard and talking to people and finding stories. It's not easy, and it's not pleasant, but I still do it. Am I to blame for your laziness? For your complacency?

"You want to know why you're stuck in sports? Because you're not a good writer. That's why. Is that my fault? I don't think so! I'm not stopping you from going to take a class, am I? In fact, I've been trying to push you into doing that. I take the time to _practice_ my writing in my spare time. That's all I do: _practice, __practice, __practice;_ over and over until my style develops and improves, until my English and German become as perfect as my Dutch, Flemish and French. You don't even read, Jay; the easiest way to better yourself and you're too lazy to do it! Well, to hell with you: I'm not going to apologize for working hard and doing my damned job to the best of my ability. You don't like writing for sports? Then nut up and do something about it. Stop blaming others for your own shortcomings."

"You snotty little arsehole!" Jay stood up and flipped the table over. The bottles and Tintin's pint went flying. "I should hit you for that!"

In a second, Tintin was on his feet and they stood, nose to nose, ignoring Todd's pleas for calm.

"Then do it," Tintin snapped, "or stop complaining!" He wasn't scared. He'd never backed down from a fight in his life. He didn't _like_ to fight, and he certainly didn't want to fight with Jay, but growing up in an orphanage he'd learned how to stand his ground with his fists. He'd had to: nobody else was ever going to stand up for him in there, and some of the bullying that had gone on inside the home had been brutal. It was either fight your own corner or end up taking your life in the janitor's closet, and of the two options Tintin had always preferred the first.

"Right! That's it!" The bouncer waded through the debris of shattered glass and spilt drinks and grabbed Jay by the scruff of his neck. "You're out of order, sonny. Take it outside."

Tintin looked at Todd, who was refusing to look at Jay. "Sit down," Todd hissed, and Tintin quickly sat back down and together they set the table to rights. "They'll leave you alone because Jay's drunk. Just shut up and stay quiet."

"You bastard, Todd!" Jay was howling as the bouncer hauled him away. "You _pair_ of bastards! You could have backed me up!"

"He'll be fine in the morning," Todd said uncertainly, when Jay was gone. "You'll see: everything will be grand."

"I don't care," Tintin said abruptly. "Can we go somewhere else? People are staring."

"Yeah, let's get out of here." Todd finished his drink and stood up. "Come on, I know a good place. You'll love it."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I've recently re-read a lot of the early _Tintin_s. Dude could fight... Remember when he took those three Gurkhas in _The Blue Lotus? _Tintin was hardcore! He got fisty in the early books, and as this story is set at the start of the series I figured he'd probably be fisty when confronted with a fight. And of course, there _must_ be a reason he's so willing to fight, and this clicked so well with the back-story in my_ Alph-Art_ story that I had to put it in.


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

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><p>At three am they were sauntering along the street, crossing back over the bridge as they made their way home. They'd ended up in a rock club, moshing with a group of goths Tintin had started a conversation with in the chip shop. His mouth was dangerous when he was tipsy: he was completely fearless at the best of times, and would approach anyone over any little thing that took his fancy. Tonight, one of the Goths – Jorge – had pulled out a nifty phone and Tintin had wandered over to complain that he had gone to buy the same one but they'd only had it in blue, which looked naff in his opinion.<p>

That, naturally, had lead to everyone whipping out their phones and comparing apps and camera quality, which in turn had led to Tintin whipping out his professional camera to take a few snaps of the Goths – most had been posed but he was sure he'd gotten a few good candid shots – before swearing undying friendship to one another over their curry chips and heading on to a club for a drink to seal their oaths.

"Y'see," Tintin was saying as they walked. He wasn't drunk, per say, but he was a fair trot away from sober. As it was, they were leaning against one another, supporting each other as they did that peculiar drunk-walk over the bridge: a sort of stagger that had become more pronounced the more they'd concentrated on walking normally.

"Y'see, the thing with Jack is… is… is that he _does_ actually say stuff that's int'resting. Eventually. And even then a lot of what he says is guff."

"Guff? What a great word. We should bring back old English slang words."

"Yeah, a revivalilsm. Revivalist? Revolution? Oh, I dunno. What was I saying?"

"Revival?"

"Sure. Why not? What are we revivaling?"

"Wait, weren't we talking about Jack?"

"Oh, yeah. Ok. So, one thing that Jack has taught me is this: _never __give __the __people __what __they __want._"

Todd stopped walking, diverting the brain-energy needed to keeping his feet moving to puzzle out Tintin's last statement. "Wait," he said slowly. "Shouldn't that be: _always __give __the __people __what __they __want?__"_

"No, you _never_ give them what they want: you show them what they _need. _Like, say for example…" Tintin screwed up his face as he thought about a pertinent example. "Right, got it: say that Sarkozy announces a new tax that only affects people with annual incomes below €100,000."

"Like Ireland, and Greece," Todd interrupted.

"Right. And look at Greece: they're rioting over it."

"Not like Ireland: they just bend over and take it."

"Right. So say it happens here, and on the same day Sarkozy announces it, photographs of Carla Bruni with her tits-out surface. What do the people want? Photos of Carla Brunei's tits, or news that will affect the majority of France's population in an unfair way, while minority wealthy keep their cash?"

Todd thought about it for a split second. "To be honest, mate," he said sheepishly, "I'd take a nice set of boobs over Sarkozy's face any day."

"Exactly!" Tintin stabbed the air for emphasis. "Men want to see her boobs and women want to complain about her boobs!"

"If she let me have a go on them, I'd settle it for once and for all whether they're fake or not."

"Back of the line, pal. What was I saying?"

"Carla Bruni's boobs. Give the people what they want!"

"No, give the people what they _need._" Tintin shook his head, certain there was a real point hidden in here somewhere. He just needed to find it again. "I'll let you and Jay print the pictures of the boobs – what do I care? I can see them in any paper or on the internet after that – but I'll give the people the meat of the matter, and write about Sarkozy. And while everyone else is so focused on the boobs, I've got the real story, and I'm one step ahead. Get it?"

"Huh." Jay thought about this again. "But if the people want boobs, what's wrong with giving it to them?"

"Nothing, but boobs won't get you a serious article. Jack says there's two types of writers: journalists and reporters. Journalists are lazy, and give the people what they want, while reporters go out and find the _real_ stories, the stories that matter, and give the people what they _need._ Journalists can be replaced in a heartbeat – all they do is regurgitate other people's real news a day later, or speculate about celebrities they've never met – while reporters make a reputation for themselves and become house-hold names. Who does the gossip column for _The __Reporter?__"_

"Eeeehh… I don't know. I can't remember his name."

"Who writes about gangs and politics?"

"Jack. Well, _you_, but Jack. Sort of. Everyone in _Paris __Flash_ is banging on about Jack anyway."

"The whole city is talking about Jack," Tintin said with a shrug.

"The whole city wants to know how he caught that killer," Todd said. "In particular, this part of the city standing right beside you. How did you do it?"

Tintin shrugged again. "I didn't do anything: my source set it all up."

"Who's your source?"

"Aaaah!" Tintin grinned and waved his finger in the air. "A good reporter never reveals his sources!"

They were about half-way over the bridge now. "That's a load of – oooooh!" Todd stopped abruptly, having made the mistake of looking down into the river and instantly regretting it. The more he stared, the more it looked like the bridge was moving and the water was staying still, and he was starting to feel a bit sea-sick. His stomach lurched alarmingly, so he stumbled over to the side and bent over the railing, gasping feebly.

"You ok?" Tintin asked, his voice unconcerned. He leaned beside Todd, moving far enough away to avoid flying chunks of beer-soaked curry chips. He didn't feel sick at all. It was one of those nights: even after a bad start everything else had clicked into place, and he couldn't help but feel strangely optimistic.

The night was bitterly cold. He could see ice on the top of the river – small patches so far, but they were still there – and the parked cars were white with frost, but at least there was no wind or rain. The cold hadn't deterred anyone though: there were still cars on the road – Paris never truly slept the way other cities sleep – and on the other side of the bridge, towards the city centre, they could see crowds of people milling about as they queued for taxis or started walking home slowly in large groups. In some parts of the city, he knew, certain clubs were only opening now: 'gentlemen's' clubs where the gambolling went on all night and women – even children, in some places – were always on hand for the right amount of money.

Comparing it to the side they were coming from, which looked abandoned; desolately dark with just one man walking near the edge of the river…

Tintin lost his train of thought as he concentrated on the man. He was carrying something. Tintin frowned and squinted at the man. Whatever he was carrying – a sack, perhaps? – was moving. The man neared the wall. He looked around casually, not spotting either Tintin or Todd, before dumping the wiggling sack in to the river.

_Anything can be a story._

"Hey!" Tintin shouted, startling Todd who hiccupped with surprise. The man looked over, spooked, and finally saw the two lads. He turned on his heel and ran, while Tintin raced back off the bridge. Once he reached the street, a quick glance showed that the man was gone, lost to one of the many side-streets. Kicking off his shoes as he ran and shrugging his heavy jacket off, Tintin scrambled over the wall and dove into the river, narrowly missing a jagged sliver of thin ice.

Then he was under, freezing water crushing his chest and pounding in his ears painfully. It felt like his head was going to burst, like his whole body had been placed in a vice and someone was turning the handle quickly. This was, probably, a Bad Idea. He'd look back on this and say; "Yes, definitely a Bad Idea."

He kicked himself forward and blindly grabbed out. At first, his fingers brushed against something slimy that _moved_, but after a few tries they closed around the rough, sodden fabric of a sack. He turned himself around and started to swim upwards, hopefully. For a long, horrible second he thought he'd misjudged it; that he was disorientated and still swimming downwards. His lungs ached and he could feel his body attempting to _breathe_. He fought the feeling, knowing that he was only seconds away from drowning…

Lights _flared_ and his head broke water. He took a gasping breath and his head slipped back under and he almost choked but he didn't care. A second later he resurfaced again and Todd was there, hands reaching out, and together they manhandled Tintin and the sack back onto solid ground, by way of one of the many little stone-stepped jetties that ducked into the river for such an occasion. Still gasping for air and shivering badly, Tintin worked his numbed fingers until the knot tied around the sack opened, ignoring Todd's frightened chastising.

"What the _hell_ did you do that for?"

"Anything can be a story," Tintin said through chattering teeth. "Jack says."

"The hell with Jack! You could have _drowned!_ Do you have any idea how cold it is? How cold the river is? What's _wrong_ with you? What on _earth_ is in that sack that's so bloody important?"

"Dogs," Tintin said unhappily. He showed the open sack to Todd. Inside, a small pack of forlorn, white pups kicked and yowled weakly.

"Poor sods!" Todd said, his anger dissipating quickly in the face of such adorableness. "Come on: my place is closer. We'll get you some warm clothes and figure out what to do next."

x

Todd rented a room in a more upmarket boarding house nearby. While Todd dried the tiny pups off, Tintin hurriedly took a shower and dressed in a pair of his friend's jeans and an old blue jumper that was warm and clean. Happy to be warm again, he kneeled down beside the electric heater with Todd, the pups mewling and crawling all over one another in confusion and excitement, the two natural states of pups and other young animals.

"Watch out for him: he's an explorer," Tintin said as he picked up one pup, a chubby one with an inquisitive expression on its face, and placed it back in the middle with its brothers and sisters. "What can we do for them?"

"Bring them up to the vet first thing in the morning?" Todd suggested. "They'll know what to do. Where to send them. Anyway, I've given them some milk. I've no idea what to feed them. Other than the obvious," he added, "and I don't have any dog food."

"Google it," Tintin said promptly, his hand automatically reaching for his phone in his pocket.

"How did we live without Google?"

"Like animals, that's how. Oh, good grief! No!" Tintin clasped his head for a second, his face frozen in horror. He jumped up and began pulling his soaking jeans from the radiator, pawing through the pockets.

"Oh! You didn't!" Todd put his hand over his mouth and started to laugh.

"Yes, I did!" Tintin took his phone over to the sink, pouring the river water from it as he disassembled it. He held up the sodden battery and looked over at Todd, his face dismal. "Think I'll get a refund?" he asked sheepishly.

Still laughing, Todd shook his head. "Classic case of water damage, mate."

"Classic case of my owned damned fault. Watch that pup again!" The chubby fellow had separated from the group again and was cautiously exploring the floor. They watched as it nosed around a pile of laundry, finally selecting a black sock to chew.

"Awww," said Tintin. "Bless him!"

"Hey!" said Todd, grabbing the sock from the pup. "That's my good sock!"

"One good sock?" Tintin raised his eyebrows knowingly.

"What can I say? It gets lonely in bed sometimes." Todd stroked the sock fondly.

"That's so attractive. I can't believe you're still single. Look, it's getting really late now: I should go."

"I'll get a bag for your clothes." He pulled an old shopping bag out of a drawer and flicked it across the room. Tintin caught it out of the air.

Gathering up his clothes, he dumped them into the bag. "Cheers, Todd. Are you ok to sort out the dogs?"

"I think I can manage to get down to the vets. Go halves on it?"

"Sure. Are we still on for that rally tomorrow?" Tintin asked.

"Classic cars? Of course!" Todd's face lit up at the idea. "I'll meet you at the bus stop at 10, yes?"

"Just outside the park," Tintin confirmed. He saluted his friend as he left. "I'll see you then."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Watch out for that adventurous puppy, Tintin! No prizes for guessing which character has just been introduced. :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

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><p>When he got home, Tintin dumped the shopping bag onto the floor and fell face-first onto the bed. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, where he dreamt of strange, rustling noises chasing him through a dark house. The soundtrack of his dream was a frenzied barking and some playful growls, until a rabid knocking on his door woke him up. Yawning, he checked his watch – it was six am! Who the hell was calling on him at six am?<p>

"Who is it?" he called cautiously.

"Jack," came the reply. "Lemme in!"

Tintin opened the door and stood back, allowing Jack to stagger in, a bottle of vodka sticking out of his jacket pocket. He collapsed across the end of the bed.

"What are you doing here?" Tintin asked tiredly.

"Fire," Jack said weakly. "You didn't answer your phone."

"It's broken. What fire?"

"The Louvre is on fire. Collette wants you there." Jack closed his eyes and started to snore. With a growl, Tintin pulled on fresh clothes and grabbed his camera. He slipped his broken phone into his pocket – the techies at the phone shop would be able to save his sim card at least – and left. He didn't bother to wake Jack: let the man sleep it off there if he liked. It wasn't as though he could do much damage.

x

The Louvre was not on fire. The irate watchman had much to say on the subject, but most of it was swearing and not very helpful. By the time Tintin had finished sorting out what the hell was going on and caught a bus back home, Jack was gone and the flat was looking very dishevelled. Some cartons of old Pot Noodles had been dragged out of the bin and dumped on the floor. The flat above must have been having problems with their pipes: several small puddles had sprung up all over the floor in Tintin's flat. He cleaned them all up and grabbed a quick shower. With luck, he'd have enough time to get to the phone shop before meeting up with Todd. As an extra precaution against future drips, he placed a couple of saucers and pots over the old water stains and hoped for the best.

x

The day was a bust. It rained so much that the field where the rally was being held ended up waterlogged, and the only participants that were still up for racing were the younger lads with their suped-up, custom-fitted Fiats and Nissans. Even the tattoo stalls, which were usually good for a laugh, were practically empty.

They caught the bus home early, said their goodbyes, and made their way home.

Tintin stood on the threshold, observing the damage to his flat. The bowls and pots of water looked suspiciously empty, but there were more puddles all over the place. Even more disturbing, someone had taken his neat pile of laundry and thrown it around the room. His socks were now frayed and slightly damp to the touch, and someone had dragged his favourite jeans through a puddle or two before off-loading a tiny, stringy poo on the left trouser leg.

_Not the work of vengeful criminals or ghosts, then._

Cautiously – and more than a little confused – Tintin made his way into the flat, picking up abandoned articles of clothing as he went.

"Here, doggy, doggy," he said quietly. "Good girl! Where are you hiding?" He dropped to one knee and lifted the blanket so he could see under the bed. It was a small flat: there were only so many places a tiny puppy could hide.

His head jerked up when he heard a rustling noise over near the stove. A small pile of paper exploded as a small white head popped up. A pair of black eyes regarded Tintin with intelligent curiosity before the paper pile was shaken away and the puppy romped over happily. It's small, stubby tail wagged so forcefully that several times its tiny arse was thrown off-course and its back legs almost went out from under it. By the time the tiny creature had traversed the small flat and made it to Tintin, it was yawning with happy exhaustion.

"Good girl," Tintin murmured as he picked it up. "You're quite the little snowball, aren't you?" He looked underneath and quickly corrected himself. "Ah! Snow-_balls!_ Good boy!"

But what to do with him? Tintin shifted so he was sitting cross-legged on the carpet beside the bed, his back leaning against the solid frame as the dog explored the treacherous terrain of Tintin's legs, and generally used the human as a climbing frame. It was a cute dog, there was no denying it, and now that it was there, Tintin sort of liked it. He'd had a niggling feeling that he was throwing himself into his work so much because he was quite lonely. He didn't like coming back to an empty flat at night, and it got dark so early these days. A dog would be a wonderful companion…

But on the other hand, he could barely look after himself! If he wasn't eating Pot Noodles, he was eating take-away because he couldn't be bothered to cook. He was gone from early in the morning until late at night: that wouldn't be fair to a dog. And most evenings after work he didn't want to go out for a walk. It was cold and wet and the weather for the next few days prophesied snow. This flat was way too small for a dog, too. He also didn't relish the idea of cleaning up so many errent puddles of pee, and he couldn't afford to keep buying new socks.

Dog food. Dog bed. Lead. Collar. Vet's bills. If he had to go away, he'd have to send it to a kennels, and they were expensive too.

Awww! But it was really cute! _Lookit him! _Tintin thought. _Lil' snowball! Lil' Snowy! Dangling happily from the laces of my favourite blue hoodie..._

"Hey!" Tintin lifted the dog up and stared at him, nose to nose. "Ok, you've got a reprieve til morning. We'll see how I feel then, Snowy."

Midnight saw Tintin standing on the doorstep shivering, a raincoat thrown over his pyjamas as Snowy danced through the rain deciding where to pee. Back upstairs, Tintin cleaned the muddy dog. Then the muddy floor. Then the muddy carpet. Then he changed the muddy bed sheets. Finally, he texted Todd, looking for the name of the vet that had taken the other pups.

x

**Text from: Todd. **

**Text Body: out d country sumwhere. Lunch 2day? I'll explain then.**

It turned out to be easier to phone Todd and clamp the phone to his ear and shoulder while cleaning up the pee than it was to text while cleaning up the pee.

-"so what was I supposed to do?" Todd was saying. "I couldn't let all those puppies get put down!"

"No, of course not," Tintin replied, shooing Snowy away from the bin. The dog had already managed to destroy two tissues this morning: it looked like a bomb had hit the Kleenex factory. "What did he mean, though; _wrong time of the year?"_

"Who knows? French people, huh? Look, I gotta bail. I'm going to be late for work. I'll text you that address later."

"Great. Thanks man, I'll talk to you later." He hung up and swooped on Snowy. "Ok, Snowy, you get to come to work with me today. Enjoy it! By lunchtime, you'll have a new home!"


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

* * *

><p>At the office, the general consensus was that Snowy was adorable. The women of the typing pool spent the morning cooing over him and feeding him parts of their lunches, and adopted him as their mascot. In return, Snowy accepted their food and allowed them to pet him, lapping up the attention and showing off like seasoned performer.<p>

"Where the heck is that?" Tintined wondered. He passed his phone over to Christina, showing her the address that Todd had just texted.

"Oof!" she exclaimed. "That's out in the middle of nowhere! That's at least two hours by bus, Tintin. You won't get there and back on your lunch break."

"And I have a meeting this evening with a contact," Tintin added, chewing his bottom lip.

"It'll have to wait until tomorrow," Chris said with a shrug.

"Can't: I have a writing class."

"And Todd's party is on Wednesday." Todd was finally going home. He was flying out of Charles De Gaul on Thursday afternoon. Because Wednesday was also Hallowe'en, a large group of them were going to a fancy dress party in a trendy nightclub as part of the going-away celebration.

"Looks like you're stuck with him 'till the weekend. Why can't you keep him?"

"I don't know if I can look after a dog," Tintin admitted.

"And nobody wants to take him?"

"Nope. I asked around the office already but nobody's interested. Todd said that the _vet_ said that it's the wrong time of year for dogs." Tintin frowned. "I'm not quite sure what that means though."

"Christmas," said Jay. Tintin swivelled his chair around and stared at Jay, who was sitting at his own desk looking sheepish. "Can I join you?"

"Are you going to start another fight?" Chris demanded.

"No. I want to apologise." Jay slid his chair over and addressed Tintin, looking very shame-faced. "I was totally out of line. I'm so sorry. I was just drunk and angry and really frustrated. I went to see Collette on Friday afternoon, to ask to transfer back to real news, but she turned me down. She said that my writing was only 'efficient'. She was really heaping praise on you though. She told me to hang out with you more, and to pick up some tips from you. It made me see red, you know, because you're a lot younger than me. I didn't have any right to take it out on you though. I'm sorry."

Tintin nodded. "Now, I actually understand what the hell we were arguing about. Don't worry about it."

"So, we're ok?"

"Yeah, we're ok." Todd stuck out his hand and Tintin shook it. They were ok, as he had said, but they weren't friends as far as Tintin was concerned. Jay would have to prove himself a friend first. But Tintin would give him that chance, for sure.

"So what does 'Christmas' mean?" Chris asked.

"It's Christmas!" Jay said brightly. "People will want pups for Christmas, but by the time Christmas comes around, that dog will be, what? Five? Six months old? Nobody wants a six month old: they want a tiny puppy to play with. So it's just the wrong time of the year for dogs."

"Oh!" Tintin said. "That's so sad!"

"That must have been why they were being dumped into the river," Chris said soberly. "Ugh, people are horrible."

"I heard you saying you needed to get out somewhere?" Jay asked. "I can drive you somewhere this weekend, if you want. If you can wait that long."

"Yes, I can wait that long. Thanks, Jay, that would be a great help."

"No problem. What are you two wearing to Todd's party?"

He couldn't really afford to buy a costume, but he'd had a great idea that morning; something that wouldn't break the bank. "You'll have to see," Tintin said with a grin.

x

Hallowe'en came. Tintin spent the day running around, trying to find out anything to do with a serious stabbing that had occurred in the early hours of Wednesday morning. There were rumours that the city had been flooded with drugs again, just in time for the parties that would be taking place that night, and Interpol were up to their eyes in it. However, Tintin couldn't find anyone to confirm or deny anything. Even T-Bag was missing in action. Tintin had tried a couple of the drug flats in the Clichy-sous-Bois area, but the only people he found were strung-out girls that would tell him nothing.

Frustrated, and with the evening wearing on, he bit the bullet and headed up to the police's gang task-force headquarters. He gave his name to the harried looking policewoman behind the desk and waited for someone to see him.

"Well well," said a voice. Tintin stood up and held out his hand. It was one of the English Interpol officers. He wore a plain black suit and stark white shirt, topped off with a black bowler hat. His moustache bushed out a little, like a flared skirt. He looked down at Tintin's hand, and then ignored it. "The littlest hobo. Tintin, isn't it?"

"Yes," Tintin replied warily. _What did he mean by 'hobo'?_

"The guy with the dog. Hey, Thomson, it's the guy with the dog!"

Tintin looked down. Snowy was snuffling about the feet of the moustachioed officer. A door to a side office opened and a face almost identical to the first Englishman popped out and observed Tintin. "To be precise," he said, "it's the dog with the guy."

"It's a fine dog," the first said.

"Thank you," said Tintin. "How do you know who I am? And how do you know about the dog? I just got him."

"Oh," said the second, joining the first, "we always like to know about people that seem to know our job better than we know it ourselves." Now that they were standing side by side, Tintin could barely discern any difference between the two, except that the second man's moustache didn't flare in the same way the first's did.

"Ah!" he said. "You're identical twins!"

"No," said the first. "My name is Thompson, with a 'P'."

"And mine is Thomson, without a 'P'," added the second.

"You're… not twins?" Tintin asked, narrowing his eyes at them. He was starting to wonder what the punch-line was.

"We're not related at all," Thompson said.

"I'm from Bristol," said Thomson.

"And I'm from Bath. And you, sir, are Tintin, from Belgium."

"Wait. You're not related _at all?"_ Tintin felt his brain start to hurt.

"Not at all, sir. Why, we don't look a thing alike."

"You… don't think you look alike?"

"Absolutely not. I have my father's nose," said Thompson.

"While I have my mother's eyes," Thomson continued.

"We're entirely unrelated."

"To be precise, we're irrelevant."

Tintin shook his head, as though trying to dislodge something from his brain. "Ok," he said weakly. "I… Ok."

"Now, Mr Tintin, why don't you come with us?" Thompson put his hand on Tintin's back and led him towards the room Thomson had appeared from. "We'd like you to answer a few questions for us."

"You do?" Tintin allowed himself to be pushed along, too confused to resist them.

"Exactly right: we want to know how you managed to be on the scene of an arrest before the police were."

"I can't reveal my sources," Tintin said warningly. He stopped walking and Thomson almost fell over trying to avoid the sudden stop. "But I'll trade information with you."

"Aaah, you have information relating to a crime? Then it's your duty as a French citizen to come forward with it. You could be charged, otherwise."

"Nice try," Tintin said with a grin. "You'd never be able to convict. I'm covered by the law and you know it."

"Shame: we were hoping you wouldn't know it. What do you want from us, Mr Tintin?"

"I want to know about that stabbing this morning," Tintin said. He entered the room first and sat down at the chair behind the desk. Without thinking, Thompson and Thomson sat down opposite him, as though he were in charge and they his underlings. "Specifically, I want to know who brought the drugs into the city."

"And what will you give us in return?" Thompson asked.

"I already gave you so much," Tintin said with a wink. "You got Herr Dryer, didn't you?"

Thomson and Thompson exchanged a significant look: their suspicions had just been confirmed. "What else can you help us with, Mr Tintin?" Thomson asked. Tintin shrugged.

"I can keep your number on speed dial."

"Can you now? And what makes you think you'll be able to repeat that? Such a thing – the discovery and setting-up of a murderer – surely isn't an every day occurrence in your world?"

"How about, as a show of good faith, you tell me what you know and I give you an address?"

"What address?"

"Aah, but if I give it to you now, you have no reason to help me. But trust me: if you show up there tonight with a search warrant, and give the basement a good going-over, you'll find some things to excite your interest. Do we have a deal, gentlemen?"

Thompson and Thomson sat back and steepled their fingers together. Both regarded Tintin blankly, but although they didn't speak to one another or change their facial expressions in the slightest, Tintin got the feeling they were still communicating with one another.

"Alright, Mr Tintin," said Thompson. "You have a deal. There's a file in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet behind you. It's labelled with today's date. My colleague and I are going to step outside for a moment. When we return, you will be gone. But you will be leaving us some information, won't you?"

"I will," said Tintin with a grin. "Scout's honour!"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> This story is actually finished; I'm just editing it/typing it up now. Keep an eye out for updates over the rest of today/tomorrow. Sorry it took so long for a new update, but to be honest by the time I'd finished Tintin and Alph Art I just wasn't bothered writing anything for a while. Oops!


	10. Chapter 10

**Warning**: contains graphic language and descriptions of newsworthy events. All descriptions of the Lord's Resistance Army is true; any geographical mistakes are unintentional and completely my own fault. The Holy Army is, as far as I know, made up by me. However, there are indications that the Lord's Resistance Army are using uneducated youngsters and idiot gangs in different countries to sell drugs, guns and people to fund their war.

* * *

><p><strong>Ten<strong>

* * *

><p>The rest of the day was spent pounding the pavements, hooking up with a few of the more suspicious characters he knew, trying to find some information about a gang that were calling themselves the<em> Holy Army<em>. According to the Thompsons' report, the Holy Army were responsible for brining a new type of cocaine, heroin and marijuana into the city. It was, if the report was to believed, even worse than the usual stuff: cut with all sorts of dangerous chemicals and poisons.

So far, it had been limited to the poorer section of the city's addicts because it was so cheap and filthy, but Hallowe'en was a party night, even if it was in the middle of the week: many young professionals would head out to parties in pubs and clubs, forgoing alcohol and its unwanted hangover the next morning in favour of the so-called 'safer' party drugs like weed, speed, and the old favourite: cocaine.

By six o'clock, T-Bag was back in his abandoned, ground floor apartment in a high-rise in Clichy-sous-Bois. Tintin found him there, counting a giant wad of cash. At his feet was a cardboard box filled with cellophane-wrapped bags of weed. Tintin picked a bag off the top and gave it an experimental sniff.

"That doesn't smell so good," he said, tossing it back in with the others.

"It isn't," T-Bag said shortly. "This new shit is killing me."

"Where did you get it from?" Tintin asked.

"Germany. Costs a fortune too, but it's all I can get. Goddamned Interpol shut down most of the grow houses. I'm trying to set up a couple myself, but it's expensive."

It was dangerous too: these days, all the police had to do was monitor the electricity board. If a house suddenly showed a huge spike in electricity use that lasted for more than three months, they raided it. Halogen lights cost a lot of power to run, and four times out of five they interrupted a grow operation.

Tintin took a seat opposite T-Bag, who was sitting on the same rank, old couch he'd been sitting on the first time Tintin had ever met him. "What do you know about the Holy Army?" he asked.

T-Bag looked up sharply. "Don't mess with them," he warned. "Those guys are hardcore."

"Who are they?"

T-Bag shrugged. "They're not locals. They're African or some shit. Some war-torn place, I guess."

"The Congo."

Tintin looked around. A young, thin white boy – imaginatively nicknamed 'Fatty' by the other boys – had spoken up. He was in the corner, perched on top of a nest of old, soiled clothes, shuffling a pack of cards.

"The Congo?" Tintin asked, his imagination stirred by pictures of safari, and remote villages in the wild savannah.

"Yeah. Lord's Resistance Army. You heard of them?"

The pleasant scenes of wild Africa disappeared in the blink of an eye. "Yes," Tintin said, dismayed. "They're the guys that do all the raping, right?"

"That's them," T-Bag confirmed. "The Holy Army are just a front. They're bringing all this shit-grade junk in and flooding the market. They're able to sell it at a profit because they've cut it with stuff like bleach and baking soda, to make more of it. They use the money to fund their war."

"That's terrible," Tintin said.

"That's business," T-Bag corrected him. "Look, man, these guys won't talk to you. They'll kill you if you go 'round there asking questions."

"'Round where?" Tintin asked quickly.

T-Bag rolled his eyes. "Now how the hell am I supposed to know where those psychopaths hang out? You're forgetting, T: I just got rid of the crazy people from my life. Why would I want to get involved with more?"

"Fine. But if you hear anything?"

"Then I'll be running in the opposite direction, because those nutty fuckers will have heard of me too! But I will throw some information your way while I'm running passed you."

"Good enough for me." Tintin took his leave. Outside, buttoning his coat against the cold, he whistled to Snowy and started away. Snowy, who had stayed outside to be admired and played with by a large group of small children, toddled resolutely behind Tintin.

x

Tintin gazed at the computer screen as Snowy, hidden under the desk, chewed his shoelaces. They were in the Bibliothéque Nationale. A small pile of books about the Congo lay in an untidy heap beside the monitor, which in turn was hooked up to the microform. On the monitor, old news articles about the Congo flashed by, and he paused it periodically as he gave his full attention to anything relating to the Lord's Resistance Army and their war of terror on the Congo, the Sudan and Uganda.

Their aim, as far as he could tell, was to establish a new kingdom in Uganda based on the Christian tenets of the Ten Commandments. Ironically, they murdered, raped and coveted their way around the various countries they were active in, thinking nothing of telling lies against their neighbours and generally being bad Christians as they went.

They swooped in on villages, leaving a slaughter behind them as men were murdered, the women raped and butchered and the girls stolen for sexual slavery. The boys were taken and sent in to combat zones as armed soldiers, to kill or be killed. Those that did their 'job' satisfactorily were given girls to rape; those that didn't perform as well as they should watched as their sisters were raped. The constant threat against their sisters encouraged and motivated them, and rape was a weapon to be wielded with as much brutality and cruelty as a machine gun or a machete.

The strange thing was, though, that everyone knew about this. It wasn't a secret: it had been happening since 1986. The leader, Joseph Kony, had stolen about 100,000 children. The numbers were staggering, but nobody was doing anything to stop it. Where were the U.N.? Where was America? This was genocide, pure and simple, and three nations were suffering under the insanity of one man and his greedy followers.

_Great snakes, compared to this, they went into Iraq and Afghanistan needlessly!_

Tintin sighed and rubbed his eyes. Jack, he knew, had been to Uganda and the Congo back in the nineties. Of course, that was before Jack had become a total lush. Maybe he could explain exactly what the Lord's Resistance Army stood for, but for now Tintin was backing away. He wasn't stupid after all: the Holy Army and the Lord's Resistance Army were out of his league.

For now, anyway…

He checked his watch: it was 8.30pm. He was due to meet everyone in _Au Crazy Horse_ at 9pm. His costume was simple though, and didn't need much prep time beyond a bit of hair gel. He gathered up his things and hid Snowy under his raincoat as he left. Outside, he was hailed by an unfamiliar voice. He turned to see a young girl of about fourteen. She had been leaning against the wall, sheltered from the worst of the cold by the Romanesque columns of the library's façade. He vaguely recognised her as one of the hood-rats that hung out around Clichy-sous-Bois with T-Bag's gang.

"What's up?" he asked cautiously.

"Were you asking about the Holy Army?" she demanded.

"Maybe."

"Don't be stupid: you were or you weren't."

"Why do you want to know?" he challenged.

"Look, T-Bag wouldn't tell your friend anything either, but" –

"What friend?" Tintin asked, frowning.

"On Monday. They guy you work with."

"Jay?" Tintin said indignantly. _That sneaky so-and-so! No wonder he was so eager to be friends again: he just wanted my contacts!_ "Jay went to see T-Bag?"

"Yeah. I think that's his name. Look, T-Bag wouldn't tell him anything, but a couple of the lads sold your friend the information. He's going there tonight on his own."

"Good!" Tintin snapped.

"Mister, they'll kill him!" she cried.

He rolled his eyes; she was being dramatic, of course. They'd beat him up, which was what he deserved for being such a snake in the grass. But on the other hand, he _had_ been a friend once, and a small part of Tintin felt wrong about letting him walk into something so dangerous.

"Fine," he said reluctantly. "Tell me what he knows and I'll try and stop him before it's too late." She gave him the address of a gentleman's club in le quartier Pigalle, Paris's main red light district.

"That's where they store their stuff," she added. "Or so I hear."

"Good. Thank you." He dug into his pocket and handed her a ten euro note. Her face lit up.

"Thanks, mister!" She winked, pulled down the zip of her Puffa jacket and hid the note in her miniscule cleavage before turning on her heel and strolling away. Meanwhile, Tintin took out his phone and dialled Jay's number. Still walking towards the metro station, Snowy stuck to his heels, he waited for Jay to answer.

"Hey! Tintin!" In the background, Tintin could hear a colossal roar as other people took up the shout. _"It's Tintin! Hey Tintin! Tell him to get down here!"_

"Don't go after the Holy Army," Tintin said shortly.

"What?" Jay shouted.

"Don't go after the Holy Army!" he repeated, louder this time.

"No, it's no good, mate, I can't hear you. Hang on: I have to go outside." There was some ambient noise and crackling before the loud, pulsing bass and shouting voices died away, leaving just Jay. "You on your way?"

"No. Listen to me: _stay away from the Holy Army_."

"Who?"

"Don't play dumb: I know you went to see one of my contacts this week. I know you're going after the Holy Army. _Don't."_

"I don't know what you're talking about, Tintin. I'm already in _Crazy Horse._ Chris is with me."

"Oh, whatever." Tintin shook his head. "I warned you, ok? Don't come crying to me when they put you in hospital."

"What the _hell_ are you talking ab" –

Tintin hung up. He felt an evil sort of pleasure in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't help it, and he felt awful for feeling it, but it would serve Jay right! He had no idea how hard Tintin's job really was: he spent the days chasing leads and catching stories, and he spent his nights doing pretty much the same thing. He was obliged to show up for work each day, because as far as anyone else knew it was _Jack_ doing all the hard, important work. That left Tintin doing the bulk of it in the evening.

Plus, most of the people he had to talk to weren't exactly day-people either: the scum of the earth – the junkies and rats that would sell out their grandmothers for the cost of a hit of heroin – naturally moved in the night-time hours, and those guys were _dangerous_. They were the kind of low-lifes that would stab someone for a few euros. Every time he had to meet with these people, he was taking his life into his hands and heading into the unknown.

Let Jay try it! Let him see what he aspired to become, in all its sordid glory. Let _him_ take the chances. Good luck to him!

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Tintin might seem totally OOC in this chapter, but by the time this story, and it's follow up (_Tintin in the Democratic Republic of Congo*_) is finished, he will have changed his selfish, all-for-one-and-everyone-else-can-go-to-hell attitude to the altruistic, selfless, mature character we all know and love.

_*This is being researched now, and is barely in the planning stages. But to be fair, if any of Hergé's stories were to be revisited by Modern!Tintin, this has to be top of the list. I mean, the whole thing is about smashing a diamond smuggling ring in the Congo. Does anyone remember anything about diamonds, diamond mines, or the bloody destruction of lives that the blood diamond mines results in, being mentioned in _Congo_? So when Modern!Tintin gets there, prepare for a story completely different from the original. In fact, it's not a rewrite; it's a sodding reboot! _


	11. Chapter 11

**Eleven**

* * *

><p>Tintin just had time to grab a shower, but it made him a little late. Oh well: it was just a party. Todd wouldn't mind. Hell, he'd probably be too drunk to care! He styled his hair and admired his reflection. Such a simple costume: a yellow polo shirt – with the collar popped up, of course – teamed with a pair of brown jeans and a pair of brown boating shoes. With his hair styled up into a quiff, he looked like a total <em>Jersey Shore<em> douchebag.

_Perfection!_

All he was missing was an orange tan.

x

"You should let me paint you orange!" Chris's girlfriend, Estella, was practically draped over his shoulder. She's shown up dressed as Snookie – completely unrelated to his own choice of costume – with a crazy fake tan that made her look like she'd been Tango'd, and they'd spent most the night amusing everyone else by dancing – well, fist-pumping – and posing in an exaggerated manner with duck-lips.

Jay had tried to talk to Tintin a couple of times, but over the last half an hour he'd taken the hint and kept away, staying downstairs with the main group while Tintin, who wasn't drinking, divided his time between goofing around on the dance-floor and the roof-top garden, which was also the smoking zone. Both Estella and Chris smoked, along with a few others, and it was a much quieter place to talk than in the club proper.

"What time is it?" Tintin asked.

"10.30," Chris replied after a short pause. She'd been drinking cocktails all night and was having trouble focusing.

"I'll try Todd again." Tintin pulled his phone out and tried to ring Todd. It was strange: it was Todd's party and he was the one who had arranged to meet at nine, and yet he hadn't shown up. Nor had he answered any of their calls and texts.

"Well?" Estella asked as Tintin frowned at his phone.

"Straight through to voice mail this time," he replied thoughtfully.

"His phone is off?" Chris sounded surprised. "He couldn't have caught an early flight, could he?"

"No-oo," Tintin said doubtfully. "He wouldn't leave without saying goodbye, would he?"

"I don't _think_ so. What else could he be doing?"

"Working?" Estella offered.

"The day before he leaves the country? Not very likely!"

"But you said yourself: your job is very unpredictable. How many times have you been called away at night, Chris?"

"Ugh! Is this about dinner last week? I _told_ you: there was an emergency!"

"_No,"_ Estella said firmly. "I'm not mad about that! I know it was for work. But is it so very unlikely that Todd wasn't called away for a similar reason?"

"If he was," Chris said patiently, "we would have heard about it too: we're all reporters here, and if something had happened we'd all know because our papers would have contacted us. Or Tintin would have known about it already. Isn't that right, Tintin?"

"Well, Tintin?" Estella said playfully. "Anything going on tonight?"

Tintin stood up without answering and left the roof-top garden, running downstairs to the club. Jay was where they had left him: in a booth near the bar with a crowd of people. Tintin caught his eye and beckoned to him.

"Is this round two?" Jay asked sarcastically as he followed Tintin to the marginally quieter entrance, beside the coat-check room at the front of the club.

"No," Tintin said. "Listen to me: did you go to Clichy-sous-Bois on Monday, and meet with someone called T-Bag?"

"Ha! T-Bag? Hell no! What would I be doing in Clichy-sous-Bois anyway? That place is a _dump!"_

"When we had that row, you said Todd should have backed you up. You called him a coward."

"He _is_ a coward!" Jay replied easily. "Don't get me wrong: he's a nice guy and all, but he's a total hypocrite. He spent the whole of the night before on Facebook with me, giving out about you and talking crap behind your back. At least I had the decency to do it to your face!"

"Tintin!" Chris called. She had just caught up. Estella trailed behind, complaining about her high heels. "What's wrong? You looked like you'd seen a ghost."

"I think Todd's about to put himself into a very, _very,_ dangerous situation," Tintin explained. He turned to the bored looking girl who sat at the desk beside the cloak room and handed her his ticket. She returned with his brown raincoat a few seconds later. Putting it on over his light polo shirt, he left them without another word.

They followed him out, confused, and bombarded him with questions as he tried to flag down a taxi.

"What do you mean;_ 'dangerous situation'_?"

"Where did he go?"

"What's going on?"

"There's a gang called the Holy Army," he explained as a taxi finally pulled over for him. "They're working over here to fund the Lord's Resistance Army, and they are _very_ bad people. I think Todd went to one of their hideouts tonight. If they caught him, they'll give him a very rough time."

"Fool!" Chris snapped. She slid into the taxi ahead of Tintin. "I can't believe he'd do this without telling anyone where he was going! Go back inside, Estella. I'll call you later."

"Be careful," Estella called fretfully.

"You getting in?" Jay asked Tintin. "Hurry up! I want the window seat!"

Tintin began to protest but was quickly cut off by Chris.

"You can't think we'd let you go there by yourself?" she asked, her voice amused.

"Don't be stupid," Jay added. "We've just got through complaining about Todd running off on his own: why would we let you do the same?"

"Fair enough," Tintin said with a laugh. He jumped in, sliding into the middle of the backseat so that Jay could hog the window. He leaned forward and gave the address of the gentlemen's club to the driver, and they sped off into the night.


	12. Chapter 12

**Twelve**

* * *

><p>The club was set in the middle of a row of drab, nondescript grey buildings. It was completely undistinguished. Indeed, very few people knew it was there or what its function was. One large, burly man with a hard face stood outside. The thick wooden door was closed and a single light above it was the only indication that it was open for business.<p>

They made the taxi stop at the end of the road. Now, they peered around the corner, eyeing the bouncer warily and wondering how to get inside. Simply walking in wouldn't work: they highly doubted that the formidable gorilla on the door would willingly admit a douchebag, a flamenco dancer and Obi Wan Kenobi.

"Right," Tintin said. The others looked at him expectantly, waiting to hear his plan. "Right," he said again.

"Go on," Jay pressed.

"Give me a minute! Ok. We need a distraction."

They looked at each other. They were, it had to be said, a distracting sort of bunch.

"Right," said Tintin."

"Stop saying that!" Christina hissed.

"Shush! I've just thought of something!" Tintin buttoned up his raincoat and pulled the collar up to hide a bit of his face. "I think I _can_ walk right in there, but I'll need your help…"

x

Other than the bouncer, the street was completely deserted. Chris's heels clacked unevenly as she staggered along the pavement humming to herself; just another drunken woman heading to a party. She stumbled as she neared the club, righted herself and giggled loudly. "Almost had an accident," she called to the bouncer. "Ooh!" she added as she got closer. "You're not bad, are you? Working tonight?"

He looked her up and down. She was striking looking – more handsome than pretty – and her flamenco costume was _very_ flattering. "Sorry love," he said regretfully. "I'm on all night."

"Aaww! I'm off to a party," she said coyly. "You can't get the night off?"

"Sorry."

"Not even a few minutes?" she asked with a salacious wink.

He looked stricken. "I can't," he said, the words dragged out of him disappointedly. "I really can't."

"Shame," she said with a pout. "Want my number?"

"Yes please!"

She rattled off a fake string of numbers and told him her name was Katja. Still lamenting his unwillingness to ditch work, she staggered on, carelessly swinging her handbag by its thin strap.

Jay struck.

Nimble and fast, he darted out from behind a car and grabbed Chris's bag. She screamed as he pulled it from her grasp, knocking her over in the scuffle, and took off at a sprint. Instantly, the bouncer gave a shout of indignation and – more importantly – gave chase. Still acting the victim, Chris gave Tintin a secret thumbs-up and went after Jay and the bouncer. All together, they looked remarkably like a Benny Hill sketch.

Tintin stepped out of the shadows and walked nonchalantly up to the club. The door swung open easily and he was inside.

x

Inside, the club looked like an ordinary lounge bar. Two good looking ladies in their mid-to-late thirties wearing black suits sat behind what looked to be a reception desk, just in front of the door. They looked up, eyeing him uncertainly. With a sudden push of unexpected confidence he smiled brightly at them, tipping a cheeky wink at the elder of the two, and was gratified to see her pleased grin as a rosy blush spread across her cheeks. Seeing this, the younger woman assumed that the handsome young stranger was _intimately acquainted _with her colleague, and turned away to hide her own knowing grin.

Tintin walked straight into the lounge and up to the bar. Still imbued with this strange confidence he ordered a pint and requested a newspaper, and took a quiet booth along the side wall where he could see most of the rest of the clientele.

A soft jazz number was being piped into the bar over speakers mounted along the walls, but the noise level was suspiciously low even though there were about a dozen people scattered around the room. Some looked smart, in business suits, while others looked more like street thugs. He wasn't sure what sort of 'gentlemen' the club catered too, but he was willing to bet that every person in there was a criminal of some sort.

As he flicked through the paper he kept a surreptitious eye on the goings-on around him. Now that he _was_ inside, he wasn't sure exactly what to do. If the Holy Army were storing goods here, logically they would be keeping them in an out of the way place, which meant that he would have to go and find them. Easier said that done: he had no idea where any of the storerooms where. There had to be at least one anyway, to keep the bar stocked, but finding it would be a problem. He'd have to keep a low profile while sniffing around places he shouldn't be.

He took a gulp of his pint and closed the newspaper, folding it neatly in two. As nonchalantly has he could manage, he stood up and followed the wall signs to the bathrooms at the back of the lounge. There were two doors almost side by side – the men's room and the ladies bathroom – and a little bit off to the right, in a dark corner hidden from sight, was a third door.

As he neared the bathrooms, he checked back over his shoulder. The barman was delivering a tray of drinks to a table of shady-looking men, and nobody else was paying attention to anything outside of their own quiet groups. This was, he figured, as clear as the coast could be. He turned right and disappeared through the unmarked door as quickly and as silently as possible.

A set of stairs, lit by a single bare bulb, disappeared into the gloom below. He slipped down the stairs, wincing at the soft sound his soles made against the wood. Ducking as he neared the opening to the cellar, he paused, waiting to see if there was anyone else around. He cautiously made his way forward and found himself in a beer cellar. Barrels stood along the walls, hooked up to thin plastic wires that vanished up into the ceiling overhead, connected to the taps in the bar above him. Spares stood alongside, and boxes and boxes of wine and other drinks cluttered the floor. But aside from the various bottles he seemed to be alone in the small, dim cellar.

At the far end of the room was another door: a metal one with a grill set into it at eye level. He went to it and peered cautiously through the grill. A long corridor stood beyond with more doors leading off of it. Lights set behind security mesh dotted the walls. There was no sign of life.

He pushed the door open as far as he dared and slipped through the narrow opening he had afforded himself. _This must stretch below the other buildings,_ he thought to himself: it was too vast to simply run beneath one building.

He made his way along quietly, listening outside of each door as he passed by, hoping for any sign of Todd. At one point he paused, brought short by a low moan from behind the third door, but when he opened it and peeked inside he realised it was a man and a woman having sex. He blushed and closed the door silently before moving on.

He was about half-way along the corridor when he heard the sound of men's voices up ahead. They were coming from one of the rooms and they were growing louder. Four doors away, one of the door handles began to turn. Tintin froze for a second and the world narrowed to just him, the hallway and the dull thudding thump of his heart as it quickened pace and began to race. Throwing caution to the wind, he darted into the room closest to him and closed the door behind him, praying that nobody had seen him.

He turned around and surveyed the room, hoping that he hadn't blundered in on another couple engaged in sex, but the room contained no person other than himself. A double bed, stripped of its bedding, the mattress stained and dirty, stood against one wall. Beyond that, there were no other furnishings and very little light to see by. Holding his breath, he heard the men draw closer. There was a burst of nasty, almost malicious laughter but thankfully they moved on, their noise moving towards the beer cellar Tintin had come from.

Waiting until he was sure they were gone, he opened the door and looked out carefully. The men were gone, so he slipped quickly along the corridor until he came to the door they had come from, suspecting that their nasty laughter was connected to Todd. Still cautious, he opened it slowly and looked inside.

Todd was there. He was tied to a hard-backed chair, his face a mass of bruises and cuts. With a short gasp, Tintin went to him quickly.

"Todd!" he hissed. "Todd! Are you awake?" He squatted down on his hunkers beside the chair and started to untie his friend. Todd groaned and looked over at him, clearly dazed, and Tintin could see that he was in a bad way: one of his eyes had already swollen shut and was little more than a bulge of black bruises. The other was almost the same, but of the little Tintin could see the whites were stained red by broken capillaries. There was wet blood staining Todd's mouth and chin, dripping down onto his clothes, and Tintin guessed that he had a broken jaw and was missing some teeth: the cuts on his lip were vicious, but wouldn't account for so much blood.

"We have to get out of here," Tintin whispered. "Do you understand?" It took a few seconds for Todd to comprehend what was happening, but eventually he nodded. Tintin took out his phone and dialled Jay's number.

"Hey!" Jay shouted. "You missed the _funniest_ chase!"

"Shush!" Tintin hissed. "I've got Todd but he's in a bad way. I need an ambulance and the police, at once."

"Get him out of there," Jay said, shocked into seriousness. "A warrant will take too long."

"I can't," Tintin said. "I don't think he can walk and his face looks so bad there's no way I can get him passed anyone without them noticing. They'll never let us walk out of here!"

"Then you'll need another distraction," Jay said firmly. "I'll call you when we're ready. Just be ready to move quickly." He hung up then and Tintin turned back to Todd.

"Don't worry," he promised, "we'll get you out of here."


	13. Chapter 13

**Thirteen**

* * *

><p>Christina went to the pub while Jay went to a service station, and they met back up at the end of the street.<p>

"This is insane!" Christina said. She was trying to remain calm, but her voice was squeakier than she liked and her hands were shaking as she passed the two bottles of vodka to Jay.

"Completely," he agreed. "But I don't see any other way of getting them out of there."

"We could call the police!"

"Why?" he asked grimly as he shoved a petrol-soaked rag into the mouth of one of the bottles. "They'll be here soon enough."

"_This is completely insane!"_

"And our friends are trapped in there," Jay said fiercely. "Tintin said that he didn't think Todd could walk. What the _hell_ did they do to him, Chris? What if they go back to finish the job and find Tintin? What will they do to him?"

Chris screwed her face up and nodded. "I know," she said. "But I'm scared!"

"Stay here," Jay said firmly. "Get Tintin on the phone and tell him to get ready to run. When you see flames, tell him to get out of there. With luck, this will draw everyone out and onto the street, giving them a chance to get away."

She nodded mutely; she knew the plan.

They had managed to lose the bouncer near the metro station and he was yet to make his way back, leaving the front of the club free from watchful eyes. With the hood of his Obi Wan Kenobi robe pulled over his head to shield him from any hidden CCTV cameras, Jay hurried forward and squatted down under one of the front windows of the gentlemen's club. It was high up from the ground, and the rude explosive would have been more effective on the window sill, but he didn't want to _actually_ injure anyone, especially not with flying glass. He just wanted to draw as many people as possible out of the club, leaving a clear path for Tintin and Todd.

He placed the bottle under the window, lit the rag and ran, ducking behind a car a short way away. There were a few tense seconds before the bottle exploded with a dull roar. Without waiting to see what was happening behind him, Jay broke cover and ran on, making for a BMW parked further away.

x

Inside the lounge, everyone looked up as the first bottled exploded and fire washed up, flickering menacingly over the window pane.

"What the hell was that?" the barman asked loudly. He exchanged a look with a tall, well-dressed man, who was sitting alone in the corner booth. The man, who was the owner of this peculiar establishment, was already on his feet, a sleek Saturday Night Special* glistening in his hand. He clicked the safety off as he made his way calmly to the door at the lobby. A few seconds later, when he had just reached the front door, there came a second explosion – much louder than the first. He ducked instinctively, wide-eyed, and behind him one of the hostesses gave a scream.

By now, most of the patrons were on their feet and following him out. Most were armed, their guns out, ready to defend their place from invaders. In total, along with the well-dressed man, about eleven others spilled out onto the street. Chris watched them and heard the plaintive wail of; "My car! My _fucking car!"_ from one of them.

"Go!" she hissed into the phone. "Get out now!"

In the beer cellar, Tintin slipped his arm under Todd's and pulled him up from the barrel he'd been resting on. With a heavy groan, Todd allowed himself to be dragged along, doing his best to walk but mainly letting himself be half-carried. Tintin gritted his teeth and pushed on, his muscles screaming from the strain of Todd's weight.

"Hurry! Hurry!" Chris was saying. Even with the phone away from his ear, Tintin could hear her as clear as day. "I'm trying," he muttered.

x

Outside, Chris watched as the men made their way down to the burning car. They were angry; she could tell even from a distance. She didn't know where Jay was – she hoped he'd gotten away by now, because if he hadn't and those men found him… It didn't bare thinking about.

And then she saw Tintin. He was coming out of the club, weighed down by Todd's body. From where she was standing she couldn't tell if Todd was alive or dead. _"Hurry, hurry, hurry!"_ she whispered under her breath. In the distance, the sound of sirens came to her and she almost sobbed in relief. _They were going to make it! They were going to be ok!_

x

Terrified, Tintin tried to hustle Todd along as quickly as possible. The men were quite a distance away, standing near a car that was burning fiercely, their voices raised in a heated exchange. There were a lot of guns on show, and if any of them looked around now he had no doubt that they would shoot first and ask questions later.

One voice rose above the others as the well-dressed man began insisting that they all go back inside before the police showed up, saw the weapons and started arresting them. A few of the men did as bid and put their guns back into shoulder holsters hidden beneath heavy jackets while others argued on. But as soon as the sirens began they all looked uneasy and stowed their weapons. Tintin could have screamed. They were going to turn around to go back inside, and see him; they were going to catch him. It had all been for nothing.

A dark shadow detached itself from the wall a little further down from the burning car and ran off down the street, robe flapping ridiculously behind. _Jay! You beautiful fool!_ Tintin thought. One of the men gave a shout and as a group they ran after him, away from Tintin and Todd without a backwards glance.

"Oh! Thank you, God!" Tintin cried. From up ahead the sirens blared louder and louder and Chris came running towards them, her high heels clacking loudly against the pavement. "Help me!" Tintin called, and together they laid Todd on the ground. A fire engine and two police cars turned onto the street and as Tintin pulled off his raincoat and balled it up, slipping it under Todd's head, Chris ran into the road, waving her arms and shouting at the police cars to get their attention.

Todd opened his good eye and stared blearily up at Tintin.

"You're ok," Tintin said, relief flooding his whole body. "You're going to be ok!"

Over the noise of the sirens and Christina's shouts, a loud _bang_, like a firework, exploded out. Tintin jumped and looked over his shoulder, his fear returning.

"_Jay!"_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> *Saturday Night Special is a cheap gun of any make commonly used among criminals because it can be discarded quickly without much loss of money.


	14. Chapter 14

**Fourteen**

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><p>Tintin jumped up and began to run towards the place he had last seen Jay as his friend had disappeared around the corner. He pushed himself, ignoring the shouts as he dodged through the policemen; over the fire hose; weaving his way through the industrious firemen; pushing himself even as his back and lungs burned from the effort of carrying Todd. He swung around the corner into the deserted side-street, the shops long since shut up for the night.<p>

A dark shape lay in the middle of the road. He made his way to it at once, his heart beating wildly and his breath catching in his throat. It moved, a hand scrabbling in the dark pool of blood that had spread out around it.

"Don't try to move, Jay," Tintin heard his own voice saying through numbed lips. He dropped to his knees beside his friend and pushed the ridiculous robes out of the way. Jay was struggling to breathe and a dark stain had spread out from his belly, covering his white t-shirt as blood bubbled weakly from the wound in his stomach. Tintin quickly pressed his hands over the wound to stem the flow, ignoring Jay's soft whimper of pain.

"Stay with me, Jay," Tintin said grimly. He looked around: a solitary policeman had followed him. "Help me!" Tintin shouted. "My friend's been shot." The policeman picked up his pace, pulling his radio out and calling for a second ambulance at once.

"T-tin" – Jay said breathlessly.

"Hang on," Tintin begged. "Help's coming. Just… just _hang on!"_

"S-scared," Jay managed to say. He coughed, blood splattering from his lips over his cheek and chin. "Oh _G-god!"_

"Please, Jay; _please._ I'm so sorry."

One of Jay's hands moved spasmodically and came to rest on top of Tintin's hands, which were still pressed against the wound. He gasped, the air gurgling wetly in his throat. His body shuddered once, then twice, the locked up with tension. His eyes bulged and his mouth moved silently. Tintin leaned closer to hear what he was saying, trying not to relax his hold on the gunshot, but there was nothing. Then Jay's body relaxed and he was gone.

x

The rest of the night passed in a blur, and by the time Tintin had dragged himself home it was almost 6am.

They had no story prepared for the police and, still in shock from Jay's death and Todd's narrow escape, they ended up telling the truth: Todd had gone there alone for a story, they thought. They'd started a fire to cause a distraction, so that Todd could escape, and in the confusion that followed Jay had been shot. No, they hadn't seen who had done it; no, they didn't know who the men were; no, they hadn't gotten a good look at anyone.

Then the Thompsons had turned up and they'd had to go through it all again. Todd was taken to the hospital in one ambulance, and Jay's body was carted away in another. With a final caution from the Thompsons to go down to the station in the morning, they were allowed to leave.

Tintin lay on his bed, on his back, ignoring Snowy. The dog was snuffling around happily, drawn by the scent of the blood that had stained Tintin's yellow polo shirt. "Good boy," Tintin said absently. He was thinking everything over, replaying everything in his head. What could he have done differently? What could he do to make sure this never happened again? How the _hell_ could Jay be dead?

His phone rang. Without checking the screen, he picked it up and answered it. "Hello," he said in a far-away voice.

"Tintin?" It was Jack. "Where are you?"

"I'm at home. Jay is dead."

"Who the fuck is Jay?"

"Jack, he worked with you for the last three years," Tintin admonished lazily.

"Oh. Whatever. Circle of life, and all that. I'm at the office. Get over here now."

"I don't think I can." His voice had taken on an almost dream-like quality. Everything seemed so unimportant now. Or maybe it was a dream after all, and this was just another strange part of it.

"Oh, I think you can, Shane."

Tintin felt his eyes widen. He snapped out of his lethargy and sat up. Snowy tumbled down from his chest, where he had been licking the blood stain, and landed in his lap. _Gross! I can't believe I let my dog lick blood!_

"What did you call me?" he asked carefully.

"It's your name, isn't it?" Jack said. "Get down here now." He hung up. Tintin listened to the beeps of the disconnected call for a few seconds before severing the connection completely. _What was going on now?_

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Dogs _will_ lick blood. It's gross but it happens. Females reading this that own a dog will know _exactly_ what I'm talking about. (eeewwww!)


	15. Chapter 15

**Fifteen**

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><p>Jack was outside the offices of <em>The Daily Reporter<em>. He was smoking a cigarette and pacing back and forth impatiently. As soon as he saw Tintin he flicked the butt into the gutter and frowned.

"What the hell are you dressed as?"

Tintin had managed to change out of the yellow polo shirt and clean himself off a bit. He'd kept his brown jeans on though, and added a white shirt and Todd's blue jumper. His hair was still styled into the quiff. Snowy trotted happily at his feet*.

"Don't ask," he muttered.

"Whatever." Jack held the door to the lobby open and hurried Tintin inside. "We're upstairs."

"'_We'?"_ Tintin asked.

"Me, Collette, and the man himself: Henri de Villars."

"What?" Tintin stopped short and stared back at Jack. "What's going on? Is this about Todd and Jay? I swear I did my best."

"Who the hell are Todd and Jay?" Jack asked. "No, this is about me. Or you. We're trying to figure that one out, you see."

Jack kept walking and Tintin found himself automatically backing away, across the typing pool, now dark and abandoned, and up the stairs to the second level.

"It's a little odd," Jack continued. "I keep being congratulated for stuff I didn't do. For stuff I have no idea about. At first I just thought it was me, y'know? Maybe I'm a little too drunk. Maybe I'm just forgetful. Maybe I'm capable of stuff I didn't even know I could do. It's possible, right? I mean, there's all sorts of stories about people doing things in trances, or when they're asleep, that they have no memory about. Maybe, when I'm drunk enough, I become some sort of prodigy. That could happen. Maybe."

"Maybe," Tintin agreed uneasily. At his feet, Snowy whined softly.

"Maybe," said Jack. They had reached the second level. The door to the editors office stood open and Tintin went warily inside.

Collette sat on a couch against the front wall, a stack of newspapers on her lap. She was white-faced, her eyes red and her mouth held in a tight line. The man himself, Henri de Villars, sat behind his desk. He was a tall, thin man in his sixties with salt-and-pepper hair that gave him a look of respectable, benevolent dignity. He nodded at Tintin, his grey eyes cold and his face carefully blank.

"Or maybe not," Jack said, his anger bubbling to the surface. "Someone has been writing under my name." He picked up one of the papers that lay across Collette's knees and brandished it at Tintin. _"'Sensational Developments In Murder Case',"_ he read. _"'Smiles Of A Killer'_. Know anything about that?" He tossed the newspaper at Tintin and snatched up another one. _"'Who Watches The Watchmen? A series of blunders in the Child Welfare department puts vulnerable children at risk'. _That's a good one. Or; '_Government creates thugs: legal system powerless to act'._ What about that? You recognise any of that?"

Tintin nodded. "I wrote them," he admitted.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Jack shouted.

"That they were good stories! Nobody else in the city was covering them!"

"This is sensationalist bullshit!"

"No way! It would be sensationalist if I had played on people's fear of gangs, but at least I tried to give both sides of the story!"

"What the hell are you talking about! You played on their fear of teenagers from impoverished areas, and people who wear hoodies!"

"Enough, Jack," de Villars said quietly. Red faced, Jack glared at him but quietened at once. "Tintin," de Villars continued, "I need total honesty from you. How old are you?"

Tintin looked at him. There was something wrong here: something very wrong. Something in his gut told him that they already knew the answer, and that it was pointless to continue the lie. "Fourteen," he admitted.

"Jesus Christ!" Collette rubbed her eyes. "I don't believe this. I just don't believe this is happening."

"Shut the door, Tintin," de Villars said. "What happens in this room now stays in this room."

"Uh, except when you call the police," Jack pointed out.

"The police?" Tintin turned frightened eyes on him.

"The police will not be called," de Villars assured him.

"They'll be called when the Belgian authorities are alerted, surely?" Collette asked.

De Villars shook his head. "I'm not calling them."

"What?" The three of them; Jack, Collette and Tintin, had spoken at the same time, two in disbelief and one in cautious hope.

"Tintin," de Villars's placid gaze rested on the boy. "You're a good writer. You have the potential to be better. I want you to continue working here."

"Henri, you can't," Collette cried. "He's a child!"

De Villars shrugged. "He's already proved himself. If he wants to stay, he should make up his own mind."

"Oh, thank you!" Tintin said, relieved. "I do want to stay!"

"You son of a bitch," Jack spat. "Look beyond the money, Henri. What you're doing is immoral and illegal. The only reason you want him to stay is because his stories are boosting your sales."

"Exactly," de Villars said with a nod.

"This is sick! I won't have anything to do with this." Jack made a move towards the door. Collette stood up and faced de Villars.

"Jack's right," she said. "You're crossing the line, Henri. I won't stand by and watch you do this."

De Villars sighed heavily. "So dramatic. Yes, you _will_. Both of you will. Sit down, Collette, or I may find myself having a conversation with your husband. And your boyfriend." Collette turned crimson and sank back down onto the couch. "And you, Jack," de Villars continued, "so many secrets. Which one would ruin you? I know them all. Tell me, do you still see your young man every Thursday evening? How old was he when that affair started?"

"You son of a bitch," Jack said quietly. His hand dropped away from the door handle. "He was always legal."

"Just barely," de Villars said with a nasty smile. "But it doesn't matter: once the accusation is out there it will follow you around for the rest of your life. You know that. You know how it works. And you!" His smile became almost kind as he looked at Tintin, who had been watching the scene apprehensively, Snowy held tightly in his arms.

De Villars reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a passport. He flipped it open and Tintin recognised it at once.

Shane Gascard's Belgian passport.

His _real_ passport.

"It's a good likeness," de Villars said, examining the small photo. "You look like you, but young too. Jack stole it from your place recently. Once he had it all figured out, he came straight to me."

Tintin shot a glare at Jack. "Fire in the Louvre?" he said pointedly.

"That's Jack's way," de Villars said with a sigh. "So underhanded." Tintin reached out for the passport but de Villars held it just out of reach. "I think I'll keep this," he said with a pleasant smile. "Like Jack said: I'm looking at the money. Since you started to write for Jack, circulation has increased. We're now the number one newspaper in France as well as Paris. I want that to continue."

"But I want to keep working here," Tintin said slowly. "There's no need to blackmail me to keep me here."

"I know. And no doubt, like the ambitious young man that you are, you want to take over Jack's feature. Turn it into Tintin's column. Be a _real, _recognised reporter. Well, I don't want that." de Villars pursed his lips and adopted a thoughtful attitude. "You see, Jack's name still has weight. And thanks to your little deception, people love him again. I don't want to confuse his fans by taking away Jack and giving them some unknown urchin from Bumpkinville, Belgium. People don't like change, Tintin: they don't adapt well. I think we'll keep things exactly as they are, no?"

"You can't do that," Tintin cried.

De Villars waved the passport at him. "I think you'll find that I can do as I like. Unless, of course, you want to return to your orphanage in Bumpkinville?" His hand hovered over the phone. "I can call the police now, if you like."

Tintin looked to Collette and Jack for help, but they were studiously avoiding his eye. They were, he realised, all bent over the same barrel, and de Villars was the one holding their heads above the water.

"Fine," he said coldly. "Don't call the police."

"You'll stay and you'll continue writing for Jack?"

"Yes," Tintin said shortly.

"Good. I knew you'd make the right choice. I'll just keep this, shall I?" He stood up and went to the wall on his left, where a large, framed picture hung. He pressed something on the side of the frame and the picture swung out, revealing the thick metal door of a wall-safe. He moved in front of the safe, obscuring the numerical pad from their view, and punched in the passcode. "We don't want this falling into the wrong hands, do we?" he asked sweetly.

_I'll get you for this,_ Tintin thought to himself. Jack and Collette wore similar facial expressions. "No," he agreed flatly.

"Good. You can all leave now." de Villars straightened his tie and smiled at them all. "After all, it's almost time for work, and I don't want any of you to be late."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> *woohoo! Modern!Tintin in Tintin garb!

If you read "_Tintin and Alph-Art: An Imagining"_, you now know why the Captain hates Henri de Villars and _The Daily Reporter_ so much.


	16. Chapter 16

**Epilogue**

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><p>It was late on Thursday afternoon, and Tintin was in the hospital. He sat beside Todd's bed, thinking about the events of the night and morning as his friend slept soundly. The whole office – and most of the city – knew about what had happened, and Jay's death was on the front page of most of the major papers. He had, at last, become regular news. His body was lying in the morgue downstairs, his heartbroken mother and bewildered father making arrangements to move it to the funeral home in Yvoire, where they lived. He had already been down there to pay his respects to them, and to assure them that their son had died a hero; that it was a quick death and he hadn't suffered or been afraid.<p>

Empty, hollow words, and the fear in Jay's eyes before he'd taken his final breath haunted Tintin.

Todd would live. He had been badly beaten, and if they hadn't gotten him out of there he probably would be dead by now, his body dumped into the river or outside the city; another missing person that would eventually fade into an anonymous statistic to everyone except those that loved him.

His jaw was broken and wired shut now. Three of his fingers were also broken, and one wrist was fractured. His left kneecap had shattered, and he'd walk with a limp for the rest of his life, but at least he was alive.

Collette wasn't speaking to Tintin. She couldn't get over the fact that he'd lied to her about his age, and that she'd believed him. She would, in time, or so Jack assured him, but that was meaningless at the moment: there was nothing any of them could do. Each of them had their secrets to hide, for whatever reasons, and until they were strong enough to tell the truth themselves they were stuck under de Villars thumb: his puppets, dancing to his tune as he jerked their strings.

Todd groaned and opened his good eye. He stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds before moving his head stiffly to look around. His face lit up when he saw Tintin.

Tintin didn't smile back.

"Don't try to speak," he said quietly. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin resting on his fist. "Listen to me. Your little stunt cost Jay his life. He's dead. They shot him when he tried to get you out of there."

Todd's eye widened. He looked shocked and frightened.

"You played us off against each other, didn't you?" Tintin continued. "What you did caused a lot of pain, all so _you_ could benefit; could further _your_ career at the cost of others. I hope you get well, Todd, but I don't want to see you again. Lose my phone number, and don't ever try to contact me again." He stood up and pulled on his coat over the blue jumper. "I've already called your parents: they'll be here this evening. And I'm keeping this jumper. Goodbye, Todd."

He left then, turning his back on Todd's tears and anguish. Todd's actions had cause this: he would have to work through that on his own, and live with it for the rest of his life. That was punishment enough.

x

He stepped out into the cold light of the dying sun as it slipped below the grey buildings of the bustling city. He whistled, and Snowy appeared, trotting happily alongside him. He had to get back to work. Jack was expecting him to fetch coffee. Apparently, the man was quitting drinking. He said it was more spiteful to de Villars if Jack got sober and started writing properly again. It would also, he secretly felt, mean that Tintin's employment there was redundant, so de Villars would let him off the hook. Tintin didn't think so though: it would just mean that de Villars had two of the finest reporters in the city working for his rag.

His phone rang and he answered it quickly. It was Jack.

"You got a pen and paper?" Jack asked without preamble. "Good. Take this down." Tintin pulled out his notepad and jotted down the list of numbers Jack reeled off.

"What is this?" Tintin asked curiously.

"It's my credit card. You say that the men that killed your friend last night are connected to the Lord's Resistance Army, right?" Jack said. "Well, I already got a score to settle with those bastards. Get to a computer and book us two seats on the next flight: we're going to the Congo."

_To Be Continued in_**Tintin in the Democratic Republic of Congo.**

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**Author's Note:** Keep watching the Tintin fandom page for _**Tintin in the DRC**._ This story is taking a lot of time to research, and a lot of the LRA's practices are so disgusting that I have to take a break every so often, from reading what they do/how they act, and how the rest of the world turns a blind eye to it. Hopefully, by the end of **_Tintin in the DRC_** you'll understand how Jack became burnt-out, and how easy it is for a journalist/reporter to become so detached from the rest of the world. And if I'm _really_ lucky, I'll have raised some awareness about the problems African countries face.

In the meantime, the Modern!Tintin update of _The Crab With The Golden Claws_ will be worked on.

And shame on anyone that thought Jay was a dick! In the real world, people are underhanded dicks all the time: watch out for them. Cherish the people like Jay, who will tell you to your face what their problem is, and avoid people like Todd, who will use your insecurities for their own game.

You know the score, folks: review if you like this story, and you get more stories.


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